


Better Than

by unsettled



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Angst, Dealing With Trauma, Endgame Fix-It, Happy Ending, M/M, Nightmares, Not Fully Endgame Compliant, Not Underage, Slow Burn, a little more tony defense squad than intended, far from home compliant, inappropriate thoughts about a 17 year old, peter growing up, peter is a good bean, so much fucking banter boys, so much overthinking tony why
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-25
Updated: 2019-08-25
Packaged: 2020-09-26 15:00:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 40,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20391592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unsettled/pseuds/unsettled
Summary: Maybe there isn't really a fixed point where it starts, where any of it starts, nothing Tony can point to and say, there, there is where I made my mistake, there is where I could have stopped this, there is where I can stop it from happening again.Maybe it shouldn’t have been something Tony tried to stop.(or: the one where Tony is going to be responsible for once, ok? He is!)





	Better Than

It starts like this:

“Hey, Mr. Stark.” 

“Hey, kid.” 

Peter drops his bag on the cement and flops down on his stool, spinning around with a push of his foot. “What are we working on today?” 

“Um,” Tony says, not even looking at him, notating a modification in the blueprints, expanding it and squinting at the pieces. “ _ I'm _ working on a redesign and upgrade of the Mark L thrusters, I don't know what you're working on.” 

“Aw come on, Mr. Stark, you said I'd be able to help you out.” 

“Yeah,” Tony replies, pointing his stylus at Peter, “once you've figured out that hydrogel adhesive. Also, I'm not going to trust someone who still thinks The Cardigans did Sabbath Bloody Sabbath better.” 

Peter snorts and crosses his arms. “Hey, it’s not my fault your taste stalled out in the eighties.” 

“Oooo seriously? I’m wounded,” Tony says, clutching at his chest. “I am, I am hurt down to my very core, I will have you know.” 

“Whatever,” Peter says over his shoulder as he spins away. “I'll just make something cool over here and you can't play with it!” 

(That's not how it starts. It starts in a tiny Queens bedroom that smells like dirty socks, with a nervous, scared kid insisting that he is absolutely one hundred percent not in any way that spider guy nope, and Tony Stark taking advantage. 

No. 

That's not how it starts either. Maybe there isn't really a fixed point where it starts, where any of it starts, nothing Tony can point to and say, there, there is where I made my mistake, there is where I could have stopped this, there is where I can stop it from happening again. 

But there are a lot of smaller, simpler starting points, and one of them is this, every Wednesday and half the days between, it seems: 

_ Hey, Mr. Stark.  _

_ Hey, kid. _ ) 

* 

When Tony wakes up - which is as much a shock to him as anything - Happy is there. Asleep, mind you, but when Tony makes some sort of strangled hoarse noise that seems to be about all that will come out of him, Happy wakes up instantly. 

He’s crying by the time he’s leaning over Tony. “Welcome back,” he says. “You almost didn’t make it this time.” 

Tony coughs, wheezes, his mouth feeling like it’s filled with sand, gritty, too much like the dreams he’d never stopped having. Carefully, Happy helps him drink. Tony licks his lips after, and, with great effort, whispers “Miss me?” 

Happy grins. 

“I’ll call Pepper,” he says, “and Rhodes. We’ve been trading shifts.” 

There’s a lot of the next couple hours that Tony barely remembers, little flashes here and there. He’s so tired and fuzzy and he doesn’t really want to think about the how of being alive. 

The next day, he’s better enough that he can actually remember most of the conversations he has with them. 

“We haven’t told anyone you didn’t die, or that you’ve woken up,” Pepper tells him. “It was just so risky, so uncertain, that no one wanted to say anything.” 

Which makes sense, really; if chances are less than five percent for recovery, don’t get anyone’s hopes up. He gets it. He wouldn’t have bet on himself either. 

Beating the odds is his favorite kind of fuck you, though. 

But here’s the thing: Tony's awake now. Chances of recovery increasing by a solid twenty percent each day, and this isn’t going to stay secret long. Tell one person, and the next day a hundred know, and at this point there are too many people involved for someone to not let it slip, sooner rather than later. It’s going to be splashed across every front page. 

He doesn’t want Peter to find out that way. 

“Ok,” Pepper tells him when he asks, “whatever you want, Tony. However you want to do this.” 

They bring Peter by the next day, didn’t tell him anything. Tony's half asleep when the door opens, when Peter freezes there, all color draining from his face. 

“Hey, kid,” Tony says, it's not much above a whisper still, at this point. 

“Mr. Stark,” Peter says, “what – how-” and then he stiffens, reaches into his bag and pulls out a pair of glasses – oh, the Ediths – and yanks them on. “Is this real?” he says, shakily. “Edith, is this real, is this real?” 

Tony can’t hear the reply, of course, but he supposes that's a reasonable response to seeing him alive. “I'm real, Peter,” Tony says, but Peter's not paying attention to him. 

“You're sure, Edith?” Peter's asking, still panicky, and whatever Edith says seems to finally get through to him. His eyes refocus on Tony and he stumbles forward, until he's half fallen over on the chair next to the bed. 

“Oh my god, Mr. Stark,” he says, “oh my god,” and then starts crying. Hunches over into himself and covers his face and sobs and Jesus, Tony was not ready for this. 

“Peter, hey, Pete, it's ok, I'm ok,” Tony murmurs, as reassuringly as he can. “I'm sorry we didn't tell you, that you had to think I died, I'm sorry. It's ok, kid,” but Peter shows no signs of calming down. Tony reaches out, still pretty unsteady, and touches Peter's arm. Peter brings his hands down from his face and latches onto Tony's arm, curling over it instead, still crying. 

“Aw, hell, kid,” Tony rasps, “I'm sorry.” Peter shakes his head, frantically, and Tony just lets him cry himself out. 

A few days later, when Tony can actually speak in a normal tone of voice and almost feed himself a whole bowl of some sort of gloop, he tries talking to Peter about what happened while Tony was gone. Peter's been here every day, and somehow the news still hasn’t leaked; Tony almost doesn’t want to imagine what Pepper must be threatening them with. 

“So,” he says, “Happy’s updated me a bit,” and Peter goes very, very pale. “There’s a lot he doesn’t really know, he said, but from what he does, it sounds like you did a good job in a shit situation.” 

Peter shakes his head, mute. Won’t look at Tony. 

“No, really, hey, don’t contradict me,” Tony says. “You can't say no to me, I’m an invalid,” but Peter doesn’t even smile a little, just looks at Tony with this broken expression. “I know things went south,” Tony continues, “but you fixed it in the end, and that’s what counts.” 

Peter swallows, and sniffs, and then stands abruptly. “I’m sorry, Mr. Stark,” he says, words running together, “I have to go now.” 

He rushes out, and Tony wishes he could take back whatever it is he said wrong. Peter pauses at the door, his back to Tony, and says, “I’ll be back tomorrow.” 

He does come back, and this time, Tony doesn’t say anything about Europe. 

It’s close to a month before Tony is steady on his feet, and almost four before he starts to feel anything like normal, and even that comes and goes. The blockade on news only lasted about a week, so he’s been dealing with the press and government and visitors constantly since then. Pepper and Rhodey deal with as much as possible, and even the people who get to Tony are given a very limited time, but it’s still exhausting. 

Tony finds out a lot of interesting things in that period of time. Like the fact that Peter's identity got outed on national television, thanks to that asshole Beck. Stark Industries had released a statement about Beck’s real identity, condemning him and standing by Spiderman, as had the new Avengers team, but it still hasn’t been pretty. Tony's weight helps, though, and the sheer sensation of his return sort of brushes things aside for a bit. 

He doesn’t go to the compound. 

The new Avengers can keep it, but he doesn’t want to be there anymore. It’s a piece of cake to take back the tower, and his floors have actually barely been touched; apparently Pepper had it written in for them to stay as is, like she knew he’d be wanting it back some day. Probably some holdover from all the times she’d had to deal with him changing his mind, but he’s grateful for it. There aren’t nearly as many memories here. 

Peter visits constantly. 

“Here,” Peter says, early on. “I think these are yours.” 

Tony turns to him and Peter's holding out a brown case. “Those are the Edith glasses,” he says, startled. 

“Yeah,” Peter says. 

“Peter,” Tony says, “I gave those to you. You get to keep them.” 

“Well, you're not dead anymore,” Peter replies. 

“Doesn't matter, they're yours.” 

Peter swallows, hard. “I don't think I'm ready for them, Mr. Stark. I'm not really a good choice.” 

“What, are you doubting me?” Tony asks. “Because that sounds like you’re doubting me.” 

“I am,” Peter says. “Yeah, I am, I think you made the wrong call,” and you could knock Tony over with a feather, what the hell. “I shouldn't have this much power. I'm just a kid from Queens,” and wow, it’s not like that doesn’t send an uncomfortable echo through Tony’s mind, “I'm not smart enough or mature enough or experienced enough not to fuck it up.” 

“Peter,” Tony says, shaking that ghost of Steven Rogers, Mr. ‘just a guy from Brooklyn’ out of his head, “you're all of those things. And even if you weren't, you'd still fuck up sometimes. That's life. You try not to and you do anyway. It's how you fix it that matters in the end. From what I hear, you've already done well with them.” 

“No,” Peter says, his voice high, “no, I didn't.” 

“Sure you did,” Tony says. “You took on a major threat all by yourself – which shouldn't have happened, what the hell was Fury thinking – and brought it down with no casualties. Doesn't sound like a fuck up to me.” 

“You don't understand,” Peter says, his voice cracking. “It was my fault! I did fuck up, completely, Mr. Stark! I was dumb and I trusted someone that I had no real reason to trust and I let them have access to Edith and I almost didn't stop them because I was too busy wanting to be normal and it is my fault!” 

“Whoa,” Tony says, “Peter, whoa, that's not – that's not the whole story, kid, and you know it.” 

“Please,” Peter says, shaking his head and shoving the glasses case at Tony. “Please just take them. I can't be trusted.” 

Tony closes his hand over the case, and Peter's hand with it. “It's not your fault, Peter,” ignoring the way Peter's head is shaking back and forth. “Listen, Beck was fucking unhinged. He was crazy – no one does that kind of shit over having their project renamed unless there is something seriously wrong with them.” Tony shakes his head.  _ Seriously _ . “He was good at hiding it, or he never would have been on that project; he was good at making people like him, and he used that on you. I left you – I left you with a heavy load, maybe more than I should have, really, and it's not your fault that you didn't get the support you needed. No one's perfect kid, not even me.” 

“But I let him have access,” Peter insists, “I practically made him take Edith. If I hadn't, he couldn't have-” 

“No,” Tony says. “Peter, he was pulling that shit off before he even met you.” Peter starts, looks up at him. “Edith might have made it easier, given him a wider reach, but Beck was already fooling people, already causing damage. He never needed you for that. Beck was smart, and if he hadn't gotten Edith, he just would have found another way.” 

“You think?” Peter asks, so hopeful 

“Yeah.” Tony grimaces. “Guys with grudges like that? I know them. I should have seen it, really. You never should have had to deal with this at all.” 

“Well,” Peter says, “if it wasn't my fault then it isn't yours either.” 

Tony smiles at him, a little. “I'll keep telling myself that,” he says,  _ even if I won't believe it _ , his mind finishes. 

Pushes his hand, wrapped around the glasses and Peter's hand, back towards him. “Keep them,” he says. “I trusted you then, and I still trust you now.” 

Peter looks down at them. Looks back up, at Tony. Nods. 

* 

There’s a saying about heroes: never meet them. 

Isn’t that what they say? Feet of clay, disappointment, blah blah blah, Tony agrees completely. No one wants to realize their idols are just people in the end. I mean, look at Mr. Perfect himself, Captain Steven Grant Rogers, wow had that been a disappointment. 

But Peter's met Tony already. Has seen him make mistakes and bad calls and show a stunning lack of good sense. Yet still, despite that, has stars in his eyes. 

If they’re going to be able to work together - and Tony does want that, actually - if Peter's going to be able to take full advantage of what Tony's trying to offer him, Peter has to start seeing him as human. 

Tony can fix this. After all, he is very, very good at annoying people into disliking him. A natural at it, you could say. If he puts some actual effort into this, there won’t be a shred of Peter's hero worship left. 

Or any of Peter's company, either, and that’s … ok maybe that’s not fixing things so much as it is avoiding them. 

Tony's also very good at making people like him. Not really like  _ him _ , but like Tony Stark ™. The face he presents to people who he wants to charm and work with and use is very good, very practiced, second nature by now. It doesn’t matter than it only holds tiny bits and pieces of what Tony actually feels like is himself. 

Not that that is so clear cut anymore, but was it ever? 

But see, Peter's seen that side of Tony, almost exclusively, in fact, and it’s not helpful, it’s not going to fix things either. Tony's going to have to do something he’s not very good at, as much as he hates to admit there’s anything he’s not excellent at (or couldn’t become excellent at if he put in the work); he’s going to have to let Peter see him. 

And it sucks, ok, it’s kind of awful and kind of something he avoids like the plague and also the flu (seriously, compromised immune system here) and anyway where was he going with this - right. It’s easier and safer to keep showing Peter the public face of Tony Stark, of Iron Man, and a whole lot harder to purposely try and let Peter see beyond that. Let Peter see him make mistakes and fail and be horribly, fundamentally, flawed. 

Let Peter see that he is bothered by showing all of that. 

It’s also, after a while, kind of a relief. A little breathing space where he’s not watching himself quite as intently. Where he doesn’t have to constantly present everything with a positive spin, as fine, as part of the bigger plan even when there is no plan at all. Where he’s allowed, in fact, to be not fine, not ok, kind of the huge fucking mess he always is. 

Where they can both be kind of huge fucking messes. 

Because they click, you know? They don’t think along the same paths, but they get to the same place, or vice versa, and figuring out where they diverged is turning out to be fascinating. 

And the better Peter gets to know him, the more he relaxes, the more his incredible awkwardness (oh my god, he’s so awkward, it gives Tony literal flashbacks to himself in high school, in college. Why is it so endearing?) eases, suffocated by his overwhelming eagerness and enthusiasm. The better Peter gets to know him, the more Peter expresses, explores, and wow, that’s great. 

The better Peter gets to know him, the more Tony lets him see. Lets slip, and then isn’t … as bothered that he let slip. After all, Peter can’t possibly judge him more than Tony judges himself. 

Never mind that Peter doesn’t seem to be doing any real judging at all. 

At first, Tony actually has to push Peter a little bit to get him to come in to the workshop. Which was crazy, really, Peter should have leapt at the chance, because, for one thing, Tony's workshop is amazing and worlds away from wherever Peter's been working (Tony's never seen it, but he doesn’t have to). 

For another, Tony doesn’t let people mess around in his space very often. 

After the first few visits, it’s pretty apparent that it was Peter's nerves that kept him away; by then he’s been won over enough by the possibilities available, and keeping him out of the workshop becomes the more pressing issue. 

They settle on once a week, meeting in Tony's main workshop and trying new things, testing, problem solving, brainstorming, creating, whatever. First it’s Thursdays, then Tuesdays, and then finally, the one that seems to stick, Wednesdays. Tony gives Peter access to one of the other shops for as needed use, but the logs tell him Peter just uses Tony's workshop instead, for the most part, tending to duck in when Tony's not there, if it’s not their usual meeting day. 

Weirdly, Tony's ok with that. 

Frankly, he probably wouldn’t even have noticed how often Peter is slipping in, except for the fact that he leaves the workspace a little neater than usual. 

Oh, and the notes. 

Little yellow sticky notes - “Why do we even have sticky notes, Friday, he’s got to be bringing them with him, right?” - in Peter's truly terrible handwriting. 

_ Hey Mr. Stark, aced that Spanish quiz because you wouldn’t stop insulting my accent last week, thanks!  _ and  _ Might be late next week, Ned wants to see the new Star Wars with me,  _ and  _ Don’t forget to let Dum-e out of time out, he’s been there for like three days,  _ and  _ May made cookies, hope you like lemon Mr. Stark,  _ (he does not eat them. Peter's aunt is many wonderful things, but not so much of a cook) and it’s all … 

Ok, Tony doesn’t really know what he thinks about it. 

Anyway. 

Once a week, they try and meet up. It’s not every Wednesday; after all, Tony has a full schedule, and Peter has a life too. Sometimes Tony's out of town; sometimes, Peter's got extra practice, or an event, or something normal teenagers are supposed to do, and Tony tries really hard to let him have all of that. But after a while, they slowly start to set aside time just for their workshop sessions. 

It’s nice to have something uncomplicated to look forward to every week. Tony absolutely will never admit how much of a downer it is when circumstances interfere. 

Peter comes in sick once, early on. “Hey, Mr. Stark,” he says, like usual, only it’s nasal and thick sounding. 

“Hey, kid,” Tony replies, raising an eyebrow. “Don’t sound too good.” 

Peter spends the next hour refusing to admit how lousy he feels. “I’m fine!” he insists, over and over and over, when he is obviously not. 

“Humor me,” Tony tells him, “and go sit on the couch for like, ten minutes. The sniffling’s throwing me off, itsy bitsy.” 

Peter sulks his way over to the couch, and eight minutes later, Friday’s telling him that Peter's asleep. Tony glances over, and Peter's curled into a huffy little ball, arms crossed, head tilted back and over, his mouth open as he breathes. Tony shakes his head. 

He doesn’t get that much work down, with the amount of time he spends checking on Peter, but whatever. 

* 

“Hey, Mr. Stark,” Peter says one day, tapping at his mask. He's trying to do something with his eyepieces, Tony doesn’t remember. “I never really thought about it much, but is that what your display is like?” 

“Huh?” Tony asks, not paying much attention. Rewinds the last few minutes in his head. “Oh, you mean in the suit?” 

“Well, yeah,” Peter says. “I mean where else would it be?” 

Tony laughs, and pulls a pair of his sunglasses out of his pocket and tosses them to Peter. 

Who flinches, just a little, when he looks at them, for some reason. Puts them on and blinks, “Whoooooa,” and Tony knows exactly what he's seeing, even if it's completely invisible from here. 

“You’d be amazed how often a heads up display comes in handy,” Tony says. “Like, say, when  _ someone _ gets tangled in their own parachute, for a totally random, nonspecific example.” 

Peter ignores that completely, aside from a slightly sheepish look. “So Edith wasn't a new design,” Peter says, “Are all your glasses like this? Wait, is that why you're always wearing sunglasses inside like a weirdo?” 

“Excuse you, it’s in fashion!” Tony says. “And also yes.” 

“Huh,” Peter says, tilting his head, glancing around the room. “It is pretty similar to mine, just a little bit less. Did you put more in mine because of my juiced up senses?” 

“Oh, that's just because of the limited field of vision,” Tony says. “Had to pare down to the essentials, plus there's no suit attached. I mean, I can still get behind the wheel in those, but I still don't need as much monitoring as if I was in the armor.” 

“Really?” Peter asks, blinks at him through the blue tinted lenses. It’s not a color that does much for him, really, nor does the shape; maybe Tony should have done something a bit slimmer for Edith. Peter takes them off and looks at them from the front. 

“Yeah,” Tony says, “here, take a look at this,” and tosses up the full interface from the armor around Peter's face. 

Peter jerks back, startled, and closes his eyes. “Wow, what?” he says, and then opens them again, looking back and forth, from one thing to another, flinching slightly every time he hits on one of Tony's commands and a menu expands. “Ack,” he says, clutching at his head. “How do you stand this? I thought mine was a lot to get used to, this is insane. How do you fight and pay attention to all this?” 

Tony shrugs. “The suit’s internal programming takes care of a lot of the little stuff now,” he says, “so while I've got the data if I need it, I don't really have to pay attention to it, which is better. Friday helps with some of it, lets me know if there's something I've missed that needs urgent attention. You get used to it though. I had to minimalize it a lot more for Rhodey and Pepper than for you though.” 

“That's crazy,” Peter says. “Seriously, that’s nuts, how?” 

“Uh, genius,” Tony says with a smirk. “Also, it's calibrated to my brain in particular.” 

“Ugh,” Peter says, “no wonder it's so annoying,” and pushes away the display with his hand. “My head hurts already.” 

“Oh please,” Tony shoots back, “you only wish you could be in my brain.” 

Peter grins at him. “Nah,” he says, “but I am itching to get at that programming, wow.” 

“Maybe one day,” Tony tells him. 

They’re spending a good chunk of time in the shop together, now, more than just Wednesdays, more time than Tony’s ever spent working with one person. Getting to know the ins and outs of how one particular person works. 

Getting to know one particular person at all, with a few notable exceptions. 

And there’s something he’s started to notice, a pattern that’s sticking out. 

Here's the thing: Tony's not stupid. A little oblivious sometimes, occasionally slow on the uptake or even willfully blind, but stupid? 

Not a chance. 

It takes him a little while to decide if he's right, or if he's just seeing things, but in the end it's kind of obvious. Peter Parker has a huge crush on him. 

Which is completely understandable, really. Tony's rich and smart and good looking and- ha, no, but really. Tony cares about Peter, and Peter knows. Peter looks up to him, always, always has, and having your idol come down and talk to you, care about you, praise you – yeah, that would turn anyone's head. 

It's not like Tony knows anything about that, not like he was ever at the mercy of deep, hopeless crushes on the best of his professors, the ones who actually cared and were delighted to be challenged by him, rather than threatened; or on any of the scientists he’d worked with, the ones whose research he’d studied, reading their papers with excitement and being treated like an equal when he was asked to collaborate; and certainly not on Obi- 

He shoves that lingering memory far, far away. 

Ok, maybe Tony does know, more than a little, what it felt like to have that kind of crush. Remembers how horribly embarrassed he’d felt when he’d been turned down, laughed at. Remembers, too, when he  _ hadn’t _ been. 

So Tony does Peter the courtesy of doing exactly what every one of those people did - or should have done - and ignores it. He treats Peter exactly the same as he ever would have, and refuses to acknowledge any of Peter's longing looks, or awkward blushes, or any of the slightly inappropriate little touches or standing too close or excessive eye contact. Peter will grow out of it, move past it. 

Tony had. 

And until then, he's not going to just ignore Peter and leave him adrift. The kid has an absolutely astounding talent for getting in messes. Ones that are maybe about ninety percent Tony's fault, but at this point he's not entirely sure if staying far away from Peter would actually stop that, or just lower Tony's response time. 

He doesn't really want to test that out. 

And until Peter's over his hero worshiping crush? Tony can keep being a mentor to him, a shining example of what not to do, someone who cares at least a little. Maybe more than a little. 

Everyone needs that, right? 

So for the moment, he concentrates on making the shop as normal and mundane as he can. Which is not as easy as it sounds, ok, his shop is fucking amazing, and Tony is fucking amazing, and honestly, Peter is fucking amazing too. 

But he can make some things routine, unexceptional. Things Peter can expect from Tony, without attaching his crush to them, Tony hopes. 

He’s never been great at routines, at creating or keeping to them, even with Jarvis - or Friday - set up to herd him along. But habits? He’s great at forming habits. Not great at forming  _ great _ habits, whatever, you know what he means, it’s- he just does stuff, ok, and if he likes the result he keeps doing it. That’s totally normal, that can make things normal. 

One of the things Tony loves to do is throw shit at Peter in the lab. 

Look, it's his lab, his rules, you want to play in here then you gotta deal with it. He pokes Bruce and moves Foster’s stuff and throws things at Peter. 

Because it's never not entertaining, the way Peter's arm just snaps up, almost too fast to see, and catches whatever Tony threw without even looking up. And then Peter's look of absolute confusion when he realizes what has happened, what's in his hand?  _ Hilarious.  _

So it's not at all out of the ordinary when Tony glances over at Peter, brow furrowed in thought and poking at the screen, to flick a little scrap of metal at him. 

It bounces off Peter's shoulder, and Peter flinches, jerks around. “What-” he starts. 

“Wow, that's a first,” Tony says, actually a little surprised. “What happened, forgot to turn on the spidey sense this morning?” 

Peter blushes, and then looks away. Mutters, “I don't know, it's not really been working that well lately. Kind of on and off again.” 

“Wait, really?” Tony asks. “That's not good, right? Any ideas why? Friday,” he starts, “let’s run some scans, shall we?” 

Peter shrugs. “It's not a big deal,” he says, “I guess? It was never that specific, really, right? Just sort of tingles that something was off, it never told me what or where or when or anything useful if I tried to use it.” He looks down at the blue line projecting across his chest. “Ack, no, don't scan me, Mr. Stark.” 

“How long has this been going on?” Tony asks. 

“Um,” Peter says, a little avoidant, “A while, maybe. Like, well, I guess since … space? Since the snap? It's a little hard to tell.” 

Months, yikes, Tony thinks, since Titan, since Peter watched everyone around him turn to dust, knowing –  _ knowing _ \- that he would be next. God, he’d held Peter in his arms and listened to his terror, and he still can't imagine what it must have felt like, to have that sense blaring away in the back of your head, screaming that you were dying, as you were fighting helplessly to stay alive. He shivers. Fucks, no wonder the kid’s precog has gone fucking haywire. 

“Don't push it,” he tells Peter. “It'll come back when it's ready.” 

Peter perks up. “You think?” 

Tony remembers trying, and failing, to sleep after New York. Remembers endless nightmares he couldn’t just  _ make _ go away. Remembers he way he still feels vaguely uneasy when he reaches up to drum on the reactor and there’s nothing but flesh there. 

“Yeah,” Tony says. “Some things just take time.” 

* 

Here’s something most people don’t know about Tony: he’s a good listener. 

Don’t misunderstand; it only applies when he’s actually listening, when he’s not doing his best to ignore what he knows is being said, like if he runs over it fast enough, it will stop being true, he can substitute his own version of how things went, should go. 

But when he’s paying attention, when it’s important to him? He’s an excellent listener, even when it looks like he’s not paying attention at all. 

Because that’s the point of failure for him, showing that he's listening. He looks distracted, like he's not paying attention, doesn't repeat back what they say or acknowledge it the way they want, just brings it up later and people act all surprised, like he was storing it up to spring on them; surprise, remember that time you said this? Oh, you thought I didn’t hear? I hear everything, honey. 

Doesn't tell them when he acts on what they’ve said, either. 

He’s been told it’s a defensive technique, a survival skill left over from when he was younger, less able to control his own actions, and maybe there’s something to that. One that's stopped serving him well and started harming him, but he can't seem to let it go. 

Because, see, you don't tell people what you are going to do – then they have expectations, then you can fail them, then they judge if you don’t - can’t - follow through. You don't tell people, because then they will try to stop you, and you'll have to fight with them and that's a waste of time. Don't endlessly fight the immovable object with unstoppable force – go around it. Cut the wire. Outthink them, outsmart them, use the resources they don’t even recognize as weapons. 

So he keeps doing that, keeps taking action based on what people say and doesn't tell them. It backfires, again, and again, when they interfere, interrupt his delicate groundwork because they think he's doing nothing, that he didn't listen. 

And no one believes him when he says he did, he was, like he’s trying to cover up his mistakes, again. They don't trust him because he doesn't look like he's listening, they can’t see it, even though he obviously never would have done what he did if he hadn’t been listening. 

They fight him, when he tells them what he's going to do, that a fifteen year old kid is right, that this accord is the better option, that something big is coming and they have to be ready, that he was wrong and he wants to do better. They tell him to listen, like he wasn’t, like he isn’t, and then won't return the favor. 

They force him to act without consulting them, he tells himself, and refuses to think about how that just strengthens their reasons for not listening. 

(Peter is not a good listener, Peter is the worst at listening. Keep your distance, leave it to the authorities, let go, be safe, be safe, and Peter ignores all of it, like it goes in one ear and out the other. 

It’s not that he doesn’t listen, like they accuse Tony of doing. It’s just that he doesn’t agree. He’s learning though, he’s getting better at listening, at acknowledging, at telling people he’s not planning on doing what they’ve said unless they convince him. 

He’s improving, while Tony is still stuck in the same pattern, endlessly repeating.) 

Or maybe not. Maybe he’s learning, too, getting better at listening to boundaries as well as what’s being said around him. 

Here's the thing – Tony doesn't record Peter's suit any more. Well, not really: Karen records everything for the possibility of needing it later, but Tony doesn't get forwarded that footage anymore, doesn't spend time watching it because as hilarious as that was (he's never, ever going to forget the time Peter flailed his way across half the backyards in some Queens subdivision, oh my god Tony was dying), Peter's right; it was an invasion of privacy that Tony's really not comfortable with any more. 

Although for Peter it was probably more about the hours of footage of him practicing in front of a mirror. (Also hilarious. So hilarious! Not that Tony ever, ever queues those up when he’s in desperate need of a laugh. Nope.) 

But he does miss it, sometimes. Not just the moments of hilarity, that Peter will never tell him about because he finds them too embarrassing. Tony has no such compunctions anymore. One day he loads up a series of the early test videos, in which he looks and acts like a complete dumbass, and has Peter watch them. 

“See this?” he tells Peter. “This is what not to do, ok? Look you're a freak of nature, you'll probably be fine if you ram yourself into walls and such, but I am incredibly lucky I didn't take my head off with these stunts. Safety first, kiddo.” And when Peter objects, Tony pushes, further. “No seriously, safety first, that has been a long, long, painful lesson for me to learn so you get in the habit right now, ok?”

So not just those moments, and not just the ability to make notes on what improvements need to be made to the suit, but the security of it. The comfort of seeing Peter survive, even when Tony feels sick watching Peter hurt and bleed and cry out in pain – in every recording, he always got back up, always made it out the other side, regardless of how unlikely it seemed sometimes. 

Tony doesn't get to see that now, just has to hope Peter's telling him the damage that's going on, that Peter will come back after each mission, that Tony is giving him the right, the best, tools. 

Peter asks him, one time, if he'll review footage from one of the fights. “I feel like there's something different I could have done,” he says, “but none of the others really seem to get it.” He looks a little embarrassed, too, like he doesn’t want to ask for help, from anyone. “They don’t fight at all like me either,” he mutters. 

“Sure, webhead,” Tony says, not that they fight any more like each other than the rest, and pulls it up. He sees what Peter's talking about almost immediately, the way they got a drop on him and used his senses against him. 

“Here,” he says, “see how they did this?” and points to how goon one had positioned himself just at the edge of Peter's vision, making Peter turn as he tracked him. “You played right into it. Next time you see something like that, don’t let yourself focus on one of them completely. Make sure you’re staying aware of all of them at once.” 

“But how can I even see if they're set up like that?” Peter protests, “I don't have eyes in the back of my head!” 

“No, but you do have your Peter tingle,” and Tony's never going to let Peter live that down, oh my god. 

“Mr. Stark!” Peter yelps, “Noooo, don't you start calling it that too.” 

“I think it's a perfectly valid terminology for it,” Tony says with a smirk. 

“Ugh,” Peter groans, “I hate you.” 

“Seriously though, you're underutilizing it,” Tony says, returning to the problem. “I know you can focus on it, use it offensively, but you generally don't, just let it do stuff unconsciously. See if you can't get someone to work with that on you, maybe Scott, or Sam, they have enough variety and sneakiness to be useful for that sort of training.” He plays back the video a few frames, right … there, yep. “Also, you don't even need that to catch this sort of thing – look, see how he shifts, right there? How he’s carefully not looking at goon two? And how there's a reflective surface right there? That’s the sort of stuff you learn to watch for, eventually.” 

“Huh,” Peter says. “Ok, yeah, I see that. So wait, what about this bit-” and they're off, picking apart Peter's technique for hours. It's not that Peter is bad, he's just the next thing to completely untrained, running on instinct and chance, and Tony knows that's not going to be enough to get him through in the end. He feels like Carol, or maybe Sam, should be doing this, really, now that’s Tony's stepped back from the team; but if Peter wants his help, he's more than willing to give it. 

And when Peter asks him if he'll go ahead and look over other footage, later, “If you have time Mr. Stark, I don't want to be a bother,” Tony agrees without hesitation. He will absolutely have time. 

(There are some videos Tony will never, ever play, a whole block of time that he's had Friday lock up, out of sight and out of his access and, he wishes, out of his head entirely.) 

* 

Something good has happened, and that means Tony gets to reward himself, and that means Injera. And since it's Wednesday, that means Peter gets it too. 

Maybe. If he gets here fast enough. 

“Oh, hey Mr. Stark, what's the occasion?” Peter asks, and dang, he did show up early enough. Not that Tony didn’t get more than enough for two, but still. 

“Hey, eight eyes,” Tony says. “Success! Board approved funding for the new intern outreach program with barely any fussing. They always fuss. About everything! It’s maybe a little weird,” he adds, “but whatever! I’m sure their good mood will pass soon enough.” 

“And that means this food?” Peter says, snagging the container of tibs. Tony points at him. 

“No more than half, exactly,” he says. “And I will be counting them.” 

Peter wrinkles his nose at Tony, his mouth already full. 

“And it means junk food,” Tony says, “food neither Pepper or my doctor would approve of, so they're never going to find out.” 

“Wow,” Peter says, “I'm surprised you actually listen to them at all.” 

“Eh,” Tony waves his hand. “Turns out being careful about what I eat actually helped with the whole ‘there's a giant fucking hole in my chest and my body hates it’ thing. And with the aftereffects of palladium poisoning. And to some degree, the 'my everything hurts not just because I throw myself around in a metal can'; turns out inflammation and toxic hepatitis and kidney stones and any number of vitamin deficiencies actually matter, who knew.” 

Peter's mouth has dropped open, his takeout box dangling loosely from his hand. “What,” he says, “wait, what?” 

“You just wait,” Tony tells him, “one day you'll be old too and everything will hurt.” 

He keeps eating while Peter stares at him. “Actually,” he adds, “you probably won't, ugh, healing factors are completely unfair in every way, you know.” 

“But that's all better now, right?” Peter says. “You're not still sick, those are all fixable, right?” 

Tony shrugs. “Yeah, most of it,” he says. “Some of its never really going away, and some of it I've got to keep an eye on. Doesn't mean I can't ever have food I actually enjoy eating, though, despite what Pepper and Rhodey seem to think.” He pauses, considers. “But then again, I think Pepper actually does enjoy most of that stuff,” he says. 

“Is that why I'm always finding food stashed all over the shop?” Peter asks, “Hiding them from your minders?” 

“Ugh, don’t call them that,” Tony says, and doesn't answer the question. “Here, catch,” he says, and throws Peter a sambussa. 

The food, scattered everywhere, well... that's a little more complex. 

Because the reactor messed with everything in his torso, really, though that's hardly common knowledge. Decreased his lung capacity, squeezed his stomach down and pushed on his diaphragm, extra pressure on everything, and all the stabilization in the world didn't stop it from shifting, sometimes, from pressing harder when Tony was in certain positions, unavoidable during combat sometimes. 

It messed with his ability to eat like a normal person, for a long time. Which took him a while to realize, a while full of misery, before he realized he'd have to start eating smaller, really small, in fact, and more often. That liquids were easier, that heartburn was enemy number one. 

That he wasn't very good about remembering to eat more often, and then ended up just not doing so at all. 

So, the stashes. Stuff he can grab without thinking about it, without having to break focus and go off and find something to shove in his face so he wouldn't crash. For a long time, if it wasn't within arms reach, he wasn't going to go get it. 

That's better, now, but things become habit, after a while. 

Plus, the palladium had fucked him up. You want nausea, vomiting (oh god, seriously, the worst with the reactor, and chlorophyll always tasted ten times worse coming back up, like having to taste it on the way down wasn't punishment enough), complete lack of appetite, complete aversion to even the thought of food? Well then, oh boy does palladium - technically palladium/rhodium but who really cares - poisoning have you covered! 

He'd stocked even more food in every nook and cranny, anything that sounded even remotely appealing, in the hopes that he'd have something on hand any time he had a tiny flash of interest in food. 

It kind of worked, but he'd still dropped an unfortunate amount of weight over those months, and picked up yet another annoying food related habit. 

Which sucks, on a level beyond the added difficulty of functioning some days, because food was his treat, ok, that thing he'd been craving was his reward when he finished something he did not want to fucking do. 

(And it's another way, sneakily, that he tries to take care of people, a thing he can do they don't even think about that much, a thing they'll take without getting weird about it being too expensive or too excessive or too much all together. Who's going to complain about a box of donuts, about takeout, about snacks stashed around the compound? No one, that's who. Except Steve, sometimes, he was weird about those things.) 

After that, he tries to make a point to order a little more frequently on Wednesdays, have things to offer Peter that might be a little different than his usual, under the guise of treating himself. 

And then, Peter joins in. Starts bringing in sandwiches and takeout and street vendor food and most of it is completely unhealthy and greasy and fucking delicious. 

“This is the best thai place, seriously, Parachya Thai,” Peter tells him. “I know some people say it's actually Sripraphai, but they are wrong, everyone knows the little holes in the wall have the big fancy places beat hands down.” 

You know what, Tony's not going to argue on this one. 

* 

Peter isn’t sick this time, but the shadows under his eyes are ridiculous, are Tony Stark on a seventy two hour work binge worthy. His “Hey, Mr. Stark,” is interrupted by a yawn, halfway through. 

“Kid,” Tony says, “if you’re going to keep walking around like that, we gotta teach you how to use some concealer.” 

Which is apparently beyond Peter's current capabilities of comprehension, judging from the way he blinks and stares blankly at Tony. Tony rephrases. 

“You look like you haven’t slept in a week,” he says. “Something going on?” 

Peter groans and shakes his head. “Just can’t seem to sleep through the night, I don’t know. It’s like my brain just won’t shut off.” He sighs and puts his head down on his folded arms. “I’m so tired,” he mutters. 

“Take a nap,” Tony tells him, and when it looks like Peter's about to protest, “no, seriously, just lie down and close your eyes for twenty minutes, science says it helps even if you don’t sleep. Are you going to argue with science?” 

“You do,” Peter volleys back, with a hint of a grin. 

“Yeah, well, you haven’t broken enough laws of the universe to have a say.” 

“What,” Peter says, “come on! Super strength, super healing, super smart-” 

“You,” Tony interrupts, “Your entire existence is a middle finger to current scientific theories; doesn’t count.” 

“Doesn’t count, whatever,” Peter says while glaring at him, but when Tony points at the couch again, Peter goes. 

An hour later, he’s still sleeping. 

Tony's fussing with a particularly delicate piece of circuitry when he hears the first noise. A whimper, maybe, or a short moan. Either way, not a happy sound, but it doesn’t really register at first; if he can just get this stupid wire to stay- 

“No,” Peter says, sharp, scared, and Tony jumps. “No, no, please, Mr. Stark, don’t!” 

Aw, crap. 

He crouches next to Peter, who’s curled up on the couch in a tight little ball, tense. “Peter,” he says, shakes his shoulder. “Pete, wake up, it’s a nightmare. You’re dreaming, wake up.” 

“I’m sorry,” Peter whispers, “I’m sorry, Mr. Stark, I’m so sorry.” 

“Come on, Peter,” Tony says, shaking him harder. “Wake up, snap out of it.” 

Peter doesn’t say anything this time, just cries out, almost screams, and flinches, jerking awake and almost hitting Tony as he flails about in panic. 

Tony almost falls over as he scrambles back to avoid Peter's arms. “Watch out, kid!” he says, “It’s ok, you’re awake now. It was a nightmare, nothing more.” 

“Mr. Stark?” Peter says, like he’s confused, and then “Aw,  _ fuck _ ,” and curls forward, wrapping his arms around himself and shaking. “Sorry,” he mutters, not looking up. 

“Hey, you don’t need to be sorry,” Tony tells him. “It’s not like I don’t have my own nightmares. Not your fault, kid.” 

Peter laughs, shakily. “Kinda is,” he says. 

“Nah,” Tony says, settling down to sit on the floor, back against the couch. Peter probably doesn’t want to be stared at right now, not that Tony does either. “That’s bullshit. Even if you’re dreaming about something you did, nightmares aren’t your fault.” 

“Yeah, but-” Peter starts, then stops. 

They sit in silence for a few minutes, Tony thinking hard. “Want to talk about it?” he says, finally. 

“Do you want to talk about yours?” Peter asks, sharp. 

“Nope,” Tony says. “I’ll take that as a no, then.” 

“No,” Peter says, agreeing. 

“That’s fair,” Tony says. 

Peter takes a few more short, shuddering breaths. 

The silence stretches on and on, the lighting over here dim, making it feel cut off from the rest of the workshop, almost cocooned. Tony thinks. 

“Sometimes,” he says, finally, staring blankly into the room, “I dream - have nightmares - about space.” 

Peter stirs, slightly. 

“About - about the first time,” Tony continues. “New York. The suit was never meant to go beyond the thermosphere, it was shutting down, Jarvis gone, power gone, everything. Just, encased in metal, like a coffin, and so fucking cold. But it was still beautiful, the stars and the glimpse of that galaxy, completely alien to our own.” 

Beautiful, and terrible, horrible, the relief of that ship exploding, the splash of color and light bathing him, bright even though his closed eyelids. So much death, so much waste, on his hands, again. 

“When I’m dreaming,” he says, “I don’t make it back in time. When I fall, there’s nowhere to fall to; I just drift, on and on, hanging in this empty, distant starscape, completely alone and knowing there’s nothing I can do, no one coming for me.” 

“That’s awful,” Peter says. “I’m sorry.” 

Tony shrugs, though he can still taste the fear that had choked him, then and every dream since. “It’s one of the better ones, honestly,” he says, and he didn’t really mean to tell Peter that. 

Peter moves a little, presses his knee against Tony's back. “I was dreaming about Prague,” he says, “about Berlin,” and Peter's never talked about that with him. Tony knows the outline, not the details, but Peter hadn’t wanted to talk about it and he hadn’t pushed. 

“There was-,” Peter says, “I- I made mistakes. Big ones. I was really, really stupid and naive and I- I really fucked up.” He sniffs, quietly. His voice is muffled when he speaks next, like he’s covered his face. “I dream about- uh, the train, except this time I see it coming, but I still can’t move, can’t do anything, just watch it come at me while Mr. Beck tells me-” he breaks off. Shudders. “I don’t think anything else has ever hurt as much as that. I thought I was going to die for real.” 

“Wait,” Tony says. “Are you saying you were hit by a  _ train _ ?” 

“Yeah,” Peter says, almost casually, like that isn’t a huge deal. 

“Jesus Christ, kid,” Tony breathes out. “That’s fucking awful. I had no idea, fuck.” A train. A  _ fucking _ train. Sure, Peter's got accelerated healing, but that doesn’t stop him from hurting, and he doesn’t exactly run around in armor most of the time. 

A fucking  _ train.  _

He pushes himself up, onto the couch, and wraps his arms around Peter, who stiffens for a second, and then melts. “How on earth did you survive that?” Tony says, more thinking out loud than really expecting an answer. 

Peter sort of laughs against his shoulder, a little wet sounding. “It hit me dead center,” he says, “so when it pulled me under I didn’t get run over, just dragged along. I was able to pull myself up from a gap, then. Most of the damage was from the first hit, really.” 

Tony's arms tighten around Peter involuntary. God, he wishes he hadn’t asked, that’s an image he’s never going to get out of his brain. “Fuck, Peter,” he whispers, “that’s - that’s beyond awful. I’m so sorry.” 

Sixteen, Tony thinks, sixteen and alone and in a foreign country, hit by a train, thinking he was going to die, again. Happy had told him Peter had been in bad shape when he’d picked him up, and Tony had known that for Peter to still be hurt, that much later, it had to be bad, but Tony had never imagined something like this. “You just never get a break, do you, kid,” he says, softly. 

Peter doesn’t say anything more, just hugs him back, for a long, long time. 

There’s another nightmare Peter has; a silent one that Tony almost doesn’t catch, the only sign that Peter's breathing gets shallower and shallower, like he can’t breathe, like he’s about to stop breathing. Wouldn’t have noticed, probably, if he hadn’t added a subroutine to Friday’s monitoring, after the first of Peter’s nightmares. 

He’s just watching out for Peter, ok? It’s just the right amount of watchfulness, not overprotective at all. Really. 

When Tony wakes him, Peter scrambles back, away from Tony, right off the couch, and keeps going until he hits the wall. “Don't!” he says, when Tony reaches for him, “Don't, stay there - Edith, Edith is this real?” Brings his hand up to his face and only then seems to realize he's not wearing the glasses. “No,” Peter says, “no, this isn't real, it isn't, come on Peter.” 

“Peter,” Tony says. “Peter, it's real, I promise, it's real. Here,” he says, taking his phone out of his pocket, bringing up Edith. “Edith,” he says, “Peter wants to know if this is real.” 

“No illusions are detected,” Edith says, and Peter flinches away from that too. 

“That doesn't mean anything,” he says, “that doesn't mean she’s real either, fuck.” 

“Oh my god, Peter,” Tony says, “this is real, here, you can touch me, that's real.” 

“No,” Peter mumbles, shaking his head, keeping his hands to himself. “That doesn’t mean anything. Tell me-” he stops, swallows dryly. “Tell me something only we would know.” 

“Um,” Tony says, thinking hard. “I didn’t actually eat your aunt’s walnut date loaf?” 

“No one does,” Peter says, blankly, and then blinks. 

“Yeah, ok,” Tony says, “bad example, apparently everyone but May knows how awful that is. How about this: you webbed my hand to your bedroom door.” 

Peter stares at him. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, that happened, no one else would have seen that,” and lurches forward, clinging to Tony. “You're real,” he whispers, “oh Jesus, this is real.” 

He won't say anything more than that, no matter what Tony asks, though Tony doesn't want to press him too hard. Just clings to Tony and shivers. 

Tony holds him close, and thinks about BARF, used as a weapon. Thinks about memories, regrets, trauma, taken from bad to worse and twisted up in your mind. 

Thinks about how if Beck wasn't already dead, Tony would put him down like the rabid animal he was. 

* 

Here’s a fact about Tony Stark: he cares too easily. Too much. 

In business, in life, this has been a weakness and a liability. Care too much, and you can’t make the tough decisions. Can’t sleep at night. Can’t slap on a smirk and take on all comers and talk fast enough to shut the critics down, decimate their reasonable points. Can’t stop hurting, and hurting, and hurting. 

Shut that caring off, and it’s so easy, so easy, to stop worrying, stop second guessing, stop seeing anything other than a bottom line and a profit and an advantage. So easy, when that remnant of sensitivity pops up, to silence it with distraction, with drink or sex or drugs or sleepless, manic fueled hours in the workshop, banging out something that might help a little, disguised as a side effect of something profitable, weaponizable. 

So easy, to stop being able to turn that caring back on. To stop wanting to be able to. 

It’s a weakness that has plagued Tony all his life, swinging from one extreme to the other, endlessly, uselessly, both sides wreaking havoc on the people around him. 

That was before, though, and this is now, and Tony reminds himself, constantly, of the dangers of not walking that tightrope between the two perfectly. Not that he does anything perfectly, but when he slips, his instincts still guide him to the caring too much side of things. Which is dangerous. 

Because honestly, he’s always made his biggest mistakes when he’s blinded by how much he cares, how much he wants to protect, how much he fears losing those things he cares about. It’s like it turns his logic off, makes him blind to any fault in his plans. Makes him incapable of listening, of compromising, of focusing. Makes him capable of doing  _ anything _ to keep what he cares about - who he cares about - safe, things he should never, ever, ever do. 

Caring too easily, too much, is still a flaw within him, a weakness. A liability. 

And he cares about Peter. 

And caring? Caring makes Tony make mistakes. Makes him unable to put the full force behind his punches, sometimes. 

Because Tony is a genius, yes, ok, but he still misjudges things. Like this whole ‘destroy Peter's hero worship by making him see that Tony Stark is human’ that turned into ‘hey Peter, see what a mess Tony Stark is’, because Tony can’t bring himself to push Peter as far away as he really should, for both their sakes. 

For some reason it has completely not worked. 

Or maybe it’s just worked in the wrong way? Because while Peter's awe has definitely decreased, his crush has not. 

And worse, now Peter  _ knows _ him. 

The first time Peter's around for one of his anxiety attacks - which, fuck, Tony had almost believed they were  _ over _ \- it’s pretty horrifying, but Peter is weirdly unphased. When Tony can finally breathe again, when the world has stopped closing in on him, as dark as space, darker, he finds Peter sitting next to him, leaning against the wall with his arms around his legs. Tony's half curled into a ball, one hand clawing at his chest, the other clinging to the leg of the worktable. Tony blinks, takes in a deep, shuddering breath, and lets it out as slowly and carefully as he can. 

“Back with me?” Peter says, softly. 

Tony huffs out a sound that might be a laugh, might be agreement, might be a sob, whatever. Slowly, intentionally, loosens his hand from the table leg and uncurls a bit, leans his head back against the wall, and closes his eyes. He feels clammy, a little sick. 

“Yeah, I guess,” he says. 

They sit in silence for a little bit, Tony concentrating on his breathing, smell of metal and oil and acetone, and trying not to think much at all. 

“One of my friends has attacks,” Peter says after a while. “They said it helps just to have someone calm there, nearby. They don’t want to be touched, don’t really want to talk or have to listen. I wasn’t sure- I didn’t know if that was ok for you too.” 

Tony rubs his hands over his face, his skin itchy now as the sweat dries. “It’s fine,” he says. Takes a long, slow breath. Again. Fine’s not right, he thinks, fine is too small, too inconsequential. It’s - “It’s good,” and that’s not much better, but it’ll have to do for now. 

“Ok,” Peter says, and nothing more, a quiet, guarding presence. 

(Later, Tony has Jarvis play back the footage for him, after Peter's gone. Watches, listens, to Peter's startled ‘ _ Mr. Stark? Hey, Mr. Stark, are you ok? Whoa, hey, I didn’t mean to startle you, sorry, I- Mr. Stark? I’m going to sit over here, alright? It’s going to be ok. You’re uh, in the workshop and it’s afternoon and I’m the only one here. You’re safe. I’m just going to stay here and be quiet, ok Mr. Stark? Ok. We’re fine.’  _

Tony doesn’t remember any of that. He’s not sure if that makes him glad or not.) 

So. Peter knows him. And it’s unnerving in the extreme. 

See, what usually happens with people is that, when they meet Tony Stark, they tend to think he’s charming, flashy, a little bit of an asshole, and probably a lot of fun. All of which are slightly inaccurate, but it serves Tony well enough, and honestly, Iron Man hasn’t changed that aspect of his life all that much. 

Alternatively, they just think he’s a huge asshole, which is more accurate. 

For the most part, however, they like him a bit. And once they get to know him a little better, like him more. 

And once they know Tony well, like him much, much less. 

So it’s bizarre that Peter, Peter who knows him disturbingly well by now, seems to like him just as much, if not more, than before. Look, Rhodey knows him, and Pepper knows him, and Happy, and Natasha some, and while all of them care about him - statistical outliers, irrelevant data, he’s told himself again and again - he knows he drives all of them more than a little crazy despite his best efforts. 

That’s what love is, right? Caring about someone even though you have no good reason for it, even when they drive you nuts, even when they fuck up. Right? 

(Tony doesn't think of love as being there, always, unshakable. Being there is not a quality he looks for, because he knows it's a bit much to ask of anyone, especially when he's pretty terrible at returning it. And let’s be honest, he doesn't make it easy, he knows that, knows the specter of shoving everyone away as hard as he can will never really disappear. He asks a lot more than people can give, so he can't really complain when they throw up their hands and give up.) 

So he really doesn’t quite understand why Peter hasn’t given him that look yet, that look that says  _ too far, Tony, that’s enough. I can’t keep doing this.  _ Sure Peter's rolled his eyes and complained and sighed at Tony, but he’s never seriously acted like Tony is pushing him past sanity. Which he has on good authority he does regularly. 

Maybe it’s just that Peter spends the rest of his time around other teenagers, people just as obnoxious as Tony. Maybe it doesn’t even register to Peter. 

Maybe he’s trying to be even more careful around Peter. 

He’s still waiting for the other shoe to drop, for Tony to finally reveal something that will send Peter running, to finally say something that will burrow under Peter's skin like a parasite. 

But for now, he’s just going to try not to think about it. 

* 

There aren’t many things Peter doesn’t talk about, eventually. Tony's been treated to what seems like the full spectrum of his unfiltered thoughts, as Peter rambles thoughtlessly while working. He’ll have to get that under control, some day, but for now, it’s kind of sweet. 

One of the few things Peter almost never talks about his summer trip to Europe, while Tony was still recovering. He doesn’t talk about the battle he fought, of course, but he barely even mentions anything else either, none of the usual stories he has about everyday life. It’s like the entire trip has been shoved in a hole in Peter's mind. 

It’s concerning, but Tony tries not to push; they both have things they’d rather not talk about. 

On the other hand, however, Peter does sometimes talk about his first trip overseas. 

About Berlin, and the airport, and the fight, and Tony really, really wishes things had gone differently. 

“Peter,” Tony says, “I’m sorry for that.” 

Peter frowns at him. “Sorry about what?” 

“Leipzig. That was … extremely poor judgment on my part,” Tony says, grimacing. “I never should have asked you to do that.” 

When he looks up, Peter looks crushed. “I thought you said I did well,” he says, quietly. 

“Oh no, Pete, that’s not what I meant,” Tony blurts out, “I meant - you did great, Peter, really. I meant what I said. But I never should have put you in that situation.” 

“You asked me,” Peter says, stubbornly. “I could have said no!” 

“Come on, kid,” Tony says, feeling tired and awful suddenly. “Do you really think you would have said no to Iron Man, for any reason, back then? You were just a kid - no, don’t, let me finish - you were barely fifteen, Peter, you were way too young to be on any kind of battlefield, much less one with so many metas and supers. I knew that, and I was so desperate to stop them that I didn’t let myself think about it, but I knew it was wrong. It was never your fight, just something I pulled you into that never should have happened in the first place, if I hadn’t been so stubborn.” 

“It wasn’t your fault!” Peter bursts out. “And I was fine! I handled it!” 

“Peter, I dragged you into that, knowing you’d be too awed to say no. I manipulated you, I put you in danger,” Tony says, “and you got hurt. That is my fault.” 

Peter glares at him, angry, his eyes wet. “I wish you’d stop treating me like a stupid kid,” he says, “I can be responsible for myself, you know.” 

“You’re not stupid,” Tony says, “but you are a kid, yeah. You’re still only seventeen, Peter, that’s a lifetime away from being an adult.” 

“Let me guess,” Peter spits out, furious now. “You’ll understand when you’re older, is that it?” 

“I hope so!” Tony says, almost shouts. “I want you to live long enough to grow up and be an adult! I don’t want you dying before your twentieth birthday because I tricked you into fighting a battle you could never win!” 

Peter jerks back, startled. 

“Fuck, Peter,” Tony continues, “how many times have you been hurt, have you almost died, because I pushed you into something unsafe? Or because someone who hated me went after you? Or hell, even because you wanted to impress me? No, I don’t want an actual number, Peter, because even once is too many times, you understand?” 

Tony sighs, tries to lower his voice. “You don’t want to be treated as a kid, and I get that,” he says, “I understand that. But I want you to have the opportunity to be a kid, to be able to enjoy that for a least a while before you have to take on all of… all of this,” he says, waving his arms around. 

“Mr. Stark,” Peter says, and he sounds a little subdued. “I know you think of me as a kid, and I know, by age, I am a kid, but … I haven’t felt like one for a long time. I’ve had responsibilities and had to make choices and decisions already that, maybe, adults should have made? But I was who was there, so I made them. And I know you want me to have a chance to be just a kid, but I’ve already gotten to a point where I can’t just go back to that.” 

“I hate hearing that, Peter,” Tony says. “I hate it because I’ve already failed you and I can’t fix it.” 

“That’s not- look, ok, last summer?” Peter says, frustrated. “Last summer I was determined, I wasn’t going to do any superheroing, I was going to be a teenager, I was going to have a normal vacation and have a normal crush and maybe find out if a girl liked me back and I had a plan, ok? I wanted that so bad, I wanted to feel normal and not have to think about any of this superhero stuff. But you know what? You know what happened, Mr. Stark?” 

Tony waits, but Peter seems determined to wait him out. “No,” Tony says, finally, “I don’t really know what happened.” 

“It didn’t stop anything,” Peter says. “I thought that if I stopped for a while, so would the risk. It didn’t. It didn’t stop me from being in danger, or my friends from being in danger, or the world from being in danger. It didn’t stop anything bad from happening.” He sucks in a deep breath, and sighs. “All it did was make me unable to do anything about it. And that? Feeling helpless and alone and afraid? That was awful. I don’t ever want to feel like that again.” 

“Yeah,” Tony says, thinking of caves, of snow, of endless cold. “I know.” 

Peter looks down at his hands. “I know you want me to do better than you, Mr. Stark, but sometimes - a lot of the time - I don’t know if I can.” 

Tony snorts. “Peter, you’re already doing better than me. You know where I was at your age?” 

“Graduating MIT?” 

“Yeah, but that’s not where I  _ was _ . I was miserable.” Tony tells him. “Lonely and out of my depth and already starting to drink. I wanted to build robots, make new things, explore, and instead I was facing having to spend the rest of my life building things to kill people - unless I wanted to disappoint my parents even more than I already had.” 

“I’m sorry,” Peter says.”I never would have guessed.” 

“Well,” Tony laughs, just a little, “be glad you weren’t around for that phase of my life. Don’t ask Rhodey about it, he’s full of lies.” Peter smiles at that, so Tony should probably give Rhodey a heads up. “Point is, you have this enormous potential, this enthusiasm for life, that I kept putting at risk, and I shouldn’t have. I wanted you to do better than me; I need for me to do better as well.” 

“I think you just fine, Mr. Stark,” Peter tells him. 

“You’re alone in that, kid.” 

“Well,” Peter says, a little huffily, “then people are dumb.” 

Yeah, Tony wishes it was that simple. Still, it’s a sentiment that makes him smile to himself, later, when he’s alone. 

* 

“How’s this bit been holding up for you,” Tony asks as he twists the joint a little, “looks like it’s wearing a bit more than the other.” 

“It doesn’t feel any different,” Rhodey replies, using both hands to lift his leg a little higher, easier for Tony to access. “But hey man, you’ve got all the biometric data, take a look at that.” 

“Yeah, yeah, but that doesn’t tell me how it feels,” Tony grumbles, and that’s important, ok, it’s Rhodey and he needs this to be as perfect as possible. 

“It feels fine, Tony.” 

“Fine is not good enough,” Tony says. “Fine is like, acceptable, nothing I make is ever just acceptable, just ‘fine’, seriously Robocop.” 

“Is that supposed to be an insult?” Rhodey asks. “Because I am more than ok with being compared to Robocop, that would be awesome.” 

Tony just rolls his eyes and prods the joint a little more. 

“So I gotta ask,” Rhodey says, “what’s up with the sudden ability to put things back where they belong? I don’t think I’ve ever seen your workshop this neat.” He pauses. “Neat for you, I mean.” 

“Oh, that’s all Peter,” Tony replies absently, because he thinks - yup, it feels almost like there’s a little burr on one of the pieces. Time to take that sucker apart. 

“Peter?” 

“Hmmm?” Rhodey pokes him and Tony reengages. “Parker,” he says, “you know, Spiderman.” 

“Isn’t he like, twelve,” Rhodey says, “what’s he even doing in here?” 

Tony snorts. “He’s seventeen, as he is very insistent on pointing out, and he’s practicing being responsible and safe under my watchful eye.” 

There’s a beat of silence, and then Rhodey says, “I’m sorry, what?” 

Tony starts laughing. 

“No, really,” Rhodey says, and now he’s grinning, “what? Your watchful eye? You demonstrating responsibility? Who are you and where did you hide the real Tony Stark?” 

“Hey!” Tony says, “I can be a good role model!” 

“I’ll believe that when I see it,” Rhodey says. 

“Peter is a shockingly well adjusted kid, with a good head on his shoulders and an above average amount of common sense, for a teenager,” Tony tells him. “I can’t take credit for any of that, but I absolutely will anyway.” 

“Believe it,” Rhodey repeats, “when I see it!” 

“Hey, Mr. Stark,” Tony hears. 

“Guess you’ll get your chance,” he tells Rhodey. “Hey kid,” he responses as Peter walks in. 

And stops, in the doorway. “Oh!” he says, “sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt, Colonel Rhodes.” 

“Please,” Rhodey says, “call me James.” 

“I think you mean Rhodey,” Tony points out. “Or honey bear, that works too.” Rhodey puts his hand over Tony's mouth. “Platypus is also good,” Tony says, muffled but still understandable. 

“I’d tell you to ignore him,” Rhodey says to Peter, “but if you’ve been spending any time around him you probably already know that.” 

“I may have noticed,” Peter responds, smiling, a little shy but excited, it seems. 

“Tony has some good things to say about you,” Rhodey continues. 

“No,” Tony says, shoving away Rhodey’s hand. “That is absolutely not true, I have been much too busy complaining to say anything nice.” 

“That implies you have nice things to say,” Peter says. 

“Also not true!” Tony says. “Nothing nice to say at all!” 

“Yeah that’s not true,” Rhodey says, and Peter grins. 

“Trust me, I know,” he says and they both look at Tony. 

“Hey,” Tony says. “No. You two are not allowed to gang up on me. Out! Out of my shop!” 

Neither one of them moves at all. 

“So I hear I’m not supposed to tell you about Tony in college,” Rhodey says, and nooooo. 

Peter perks up, instantly. “Oh absolutely not,” he agrees, and then grins. “Tell me everything!” 

“Nooooo,” Tony groans, “tell him nothing! Believe nothing,” he adds to Peter. 

They continue to ignore him. 

This is the worst. 

And of course Rhodey immediately digs up the most embarrassing of the stories - not the ones most people would think are the most embarrassing, the ones about parties and girls and boys and wild behavior. No, of course not. He brings up the ones where Tony is clingy, where Tony is awkward, where Tony is miles behind his classmates, socially and emotionally. 

Tony is ignoring them as hard as he can, because otherwise he is going to curl up in a ball and die, this is awful. Rhodey is calling him cute. 

“I have never been cute,” he mutters, and Rhodey straight up cackles. Ugh, Rhodey is the worst. 

“Oh yeah,” Rhodey says, “Hey Friday, do you have access to pictures from 1985?” 

“No,” Tony yelps. “Oh my god no, Friday don’t you dare-” but it’s too late. 

“Oh man,” Peter says, “you were right. Wow.” 

“Don’t.” Tony says, pointing at him, and he can feel his ears burning arg. “Do not even think the word cute if you ever want to set foot in this shop again.” 

Peter looks at him, his grin growing and growing and growing, and then he looks at Rhodey and says “I was thinking adorable actually, but-” 

“Noooooo!” Tony howls, throws his screwdriver down. “I hate you all. I’m leaving,” he says, and they don’t stop laughing even long enough to say goodbye, honestly. 

Later, Rhodey will catch Tony and tell him, “You’re right, he is a good kid. Good natured. Smart. He’s going places.” 

“Yeah,” Tony says, “I know.” 

“Not because of your influence, though,” Rhodey adds, trying and failing to keep a straight face. 

Tony just scrunches his nose at him. 

Rhodey glances sidelong at him. “Don’t know how he puts up with you,” he says. 

“He’s endlessly surprising,” Tony says, and that may have come out a little fonder than he meant. 

The smile Rhodey gives him in return is pretty fond too. 

* 

The year passes by, month by month, and then it’s summer. Which doesn’t mean much for Tony, but for Peter, it means he suddenly has an extra eight hours a day to fill. 

Apparently, he’s planning on using at least five of them for extra workshop time. 

It seems like Peter is there all the time now, Tony catching him a good half the times he heads down to work on something, the familiar refrain of ‘Hey, Mr. Stark” and “Hey, kid’. Doesn’t even matter what time now, he’s seen Peter there morning, day, and night. Not that Peter's company bothers him, particularly, but it’s not what he’d expect of a teenager on summer vacation. 

It’s maybe a little worrying. 

“Don’t you have any vacation plans?” Tony asks him, one day. 

Peter shrugs. “Not really?” he says, hesitant. “Usually I spend part of the time in summer school, but they don’t have any new classes this year, and May said I’m probably learning more here anyway. Plus she’s pulled a one-eighty and thinks you’re a good influence.” He grins at Tony's raised eyebrow. “Yeah, I don't know where she got that from either.” 

“Excuse you,” Tony says, “I am an excellent role model. You simply failed to specify what I am a role model  _ for _ .” 

Peter rolls his eyes. “I don’t think any of the things you’re thinking of fall under ‘good influences’,” he says. 

“Kid,” Tony replies. “You don’t have the first idea what I’m thinking of,” with a smirk, and Peter blushes, sudden and bright, and looks away. Oops, too far, Tony thinks. 

“I spend some time with Ned and MJ,” Peter adds, his voice a little high, “but I don’t really have a ton of friends, you know. Secret identity and then sort of a celebrity, and also I’m a huge loser.” 

“Yeah, well, sucks to be you,” Tony says, “too bad you aren’t as awesome as Iron Man,” and Peter webs him, right in the face. 

Ok, Tony thinks as he’s clawing it off his face, listening to Peter laugh like a maniac in the background, he may have deserved that. 

Tony tries again, because it really is a little worrying, how much time Peter is choosing to spend around Tony when given the choice. 

“Hey, webhead,” he says, “didn’t you say something about wanting to go to Hamilton?” 

Peter perks up. “Yeah!” he says, brightly, Ned was talking about it and MJ actually seemed interested and I thought maybe we’d all go together and make a day of it.” He slumps. “But all the cheaper ones were all sold out in like, ten minutes, and now the tickets are selling for these insane prices. I mean, yeah, it’s super hyped, but seriously? Over eight hundred dollars for one ticket? Who pays that? Especially for a show that’s been out for years?” 

Tony grins at him. “I’ll tell you who,” he says, and tosses an envelope across the bench to Peter. 

“No,” Peter says. “You didn’t.” 

“Oh yes,” Tony says. 

Peter rips open the envelope and stares at the tickets inside. There’s six, not three, because Tony had been thinking May might join them, or if Peter wants to just hang out with his friends, maybe he’d have made a few more by now. 

“I can’t believe you got these,” Peter says. “Oh my god, Ned is going to lose his mind!” 

Tony smirks. “I get some perks,” he says, smugly, and Peter tries to make an annoyed face at Tony, but he’s still grinning too hard, too excited. 

“Thanks, Mr. Stark,” he says, “really, thank you, this is going to be awesome.” 

That’s kind of what Tony was hoping for; Peter having a really great time, hanging with his friends, a reminder that attaching himself to Tony, trying to be around Tony as often as possible, is not the best or only way to enjoy himself. Peter’s been letting his friends fall by the wayside, it sometimes seems, the stream of stories about MJ’s and Ned’s antics turning into a trickle, a bare mention here and there. 

Peter needs more connections, not fewer, something it took Tony far too long to learn, and he doesn’t want to … warp that in Peter, doesn’t want his friendly nature to become twisted by trying to follow in Tony’s flawed footsteps. 

“Have fun,” he says, “send a postcard or something.” 

Peter hasn’t even noticed the VIP passes yet, the backstage preshow access. Tony kind of hopes one of his friends will point it out, even if it means Tony misses out on Peter bouncing off the walls in excitement. 

This is better. 

He tries again, one last time, when he catches Peter in the workshop after he comes down in the middle of the night, unable to sleep. 

“Seriously, creepy crawler?” he says, and Peter jumps. “Don’t you ever sleep?” 

“Hi, Mr. Stark,” Peter says, a little nervously. “Uh, I sleep! I sleep plenty!” 

“Not enough,” Tony points at him, “if you’re here at three something in the morning.” 

“Yeah, well, what’s your excuse,” Peter mutters, and Tony ignores that in favor of figuring out what Peter's fiddling with. 

“Is that one of your web shooters?” he asks. “What happened to it?” It looks bent, twisted up. 

“Uh…” Peter says, and that’s not at all suspicious, nope. 

Tony slumps down on his stool. “Were you out patrolling?” 

“...maybe,” Peter says, not looking at him. 

“Didn’t we agree that you’d be sticking to the times you’re scheduled?” 

“Maaaaaybe,” Peter says, drawing it out, still not looking up. 

Tony lets the silence sink in for a while. 

Ok, so yes, Peter's supposed to stick to the roster, and yes, as Peter's mentor he should make that clear, but wow he’s bad at this. 

Peter's changed enough, he thinks, that it’s more than likely he actually had a good reason. 

“So what happened?” Tony asks, and Peter finally looks at him, relief on his face. 

“You’re not mad at me?” he asks. Tony tilts his hand back and forth. 

“Eh,” he says, “six to half a dozen. I think I trust you to have a reason by now.” 

And ok, he did not expect for Peter to look like … well, whatever that expression was. It sure wasn’t happy. 

“Oh,” Peter says, turning the mangled web shooter over in his hands. 

Tony leans his chin on his hand, waits. 

“So,” Peter starts, “I had this feeling…” 

* 

It’s summer, and summer means hot. Summer in the city, surrounded by high rises and blacktop and trapped air, means  _ hot _ . 

The tower’s heating and cooling is beyond state of the art, but sometimes, with forging and testing and the occasional low grade fire, it can still struggle to keep up in the workshop. Especially when he temporarily shuts it off from the rest of the building to vent a bunch of smoke without anyone finding out about a fire. A tiny fire. Teeny tiny. Also, not his fault. 

Anyway, it’s warmer than usual in the workshop, which Tony has mostly dealt with so far by stripping to a tank top and berating Dum-e. 

He’s about to give up for the moment, take a break and regroup, when Peter comes in still in the spider suit. “Hey Mr. Stark,” he says, pulling off his mask to reveal that his face is red and sweating, his hair matted down. “Oh my god, why is it so hot in here? What did you do? Why?” 

“Hey, kid,” Tony says. “This is not my fault! Dum-e-” 

“I don’t believe that at all,” Peter interrupts, “whatever you’re going to say.” He lays down, flat on the cement floor. “It’s too hot to even leave,” he whines. “I’m dying.” 

“You’re whining,” Tony says. “Just go to your shop!” 

“Yeah, that too,” Peter replies. “Can’t. Too hot. No move. Much wow.” 

“You’re impossible,” Tony mutters. Peter makes a pitiful sound, and brings his hand up from the floor, brushes his damp hair back and puts his hand across his forehead. Sighs. 

“Ugh,” Tony says, “why don’t you just go hang out in the pool for a while? Maybe you’ll be useful afterwards.” 

“I’m always useful,” Peter responds, distractedly. “Wait, I can use the pool?” 

“Sure,” Tony says. “Go for it. There’s probably some extra suits around,” and then, when Peter bounds right up, “Oh, I see, you can move for the pool…” 

Peter grins at him, unrepentant. “Hey, you should come too, Mr. Stark,” he says. 

“Sure, webhead,” Tony says, distracted. What is Dum-e doing over there? “I’ll catch you later- What the hell, Dum-e, get away from that!” 

When he finally gets his idiot robot arm - “you are a tragedy, honestly, I am going to put you on the curb with a ‘free’ sign” - away from a rack that absolutely should not be sprayed with fire suppressant, Peter's long gone. The workshop is cooling down again, but not fast enough, and he feels sticky and gross. The pool sounds pretty good, actually. 

He steps out onto the tile around the pool, and glances over at the skyline for a moment. Peter was right; it’s horrifically hot, even up here. “Hey, Mr. Stark,” he hears Peter call out, and glances around. Peter waves at him as he pulls himself out of the pool, shaking water out of his hair, and Tony- 

Tony- 

Tony waves back, quickly, and hops into the pool, dunks his head under and tries not to think about anything. 

What the hell. What the hell?? What? 

He strikes out for the opposite side of the pool, away from Peter. 

Peter, who he’d just looked at and, for a moment, felt … appreciation? Sure, let's go with that, he thinks, frantically, that’s fine. That’s safe; after all, he’s not blind, he can … can notice that Peter is an attractive young man without it being anything more. 

Tony bobs up at the edge of the pool, rests his arms on the tile and takes a deep breath. That’s all it was. A casual appreciation of something beautiful, like a piece of art. He’s freaking out for no reason at all. 

After all, he’s not - he’s absolutely not- 

He turns around and heads back across the pool, head still spinning. When he hits the far side and pops up, Peter's right there, sitting on the edge, his feet kicking in the water. 

“Thanks, Mr. Stark,” Peter say, grinning, “this is great! The pool’s awesome, the view is amazing - how are you not in here all the time?” 

Peter's hair is sticking up, damp, and there are still drops of water running down his skin. He has freckles on his shoulders, and that swimsuit is suddenly way smaller than Tony is comfortable with. “Oh, well,” Tony manages to say, his mouth suddenly dry, “you get used to anything after a while, you know.” 

“Yeah, I guess,” Peter agrees. Tips his head back and closes his eyes, kicking his legs in the water. 

“Right,” Tony says, and flips back, Laps, he thinks, laps are good. Boring, and he’ll wear himself out, and then by the time he’s ready to get out, Peter will be gone. 

Because Tony has just discovered that there is something very, very wrong with himself. 

* 

Tony spends the next couple of days alternately pretending nothing has happened, everything is fine, and completely freaking out. 

Where had this come from? Where the  _ fuck _ had this come from? 

Because look, Tony knows those types of men. Has worked with them, partied with them, shaken their hands and smiled at them, all his life. The ones with the perky, pretty girls on their arms, most barely out of their teens and completely out of their depths, like a physical manifestation of a smug, disgusting, wordless boast that age hasn’t slowed them down at all. A desperate assertion that age cannot touch them, nothing is going to slow them down, and you can’t stop anything they want to do, they’re untouchable. 

Tony loves making them rethink that. 

Some of the girls have an edge to their eyes, hard as iron, and Tony respects that, that they’re making do with taking as much as they can. But some of them, too many of them, end up looking completely overawed, a little scared, a little worn out, their happiness ground down and dulled, and Tony hates that, hates knowing what those men are like, hates how they have no sense of shame. Hates shaking their hands and kissing their asses and making deals with them; did it as little as possible before, and now, after Iron Man, does it so, so much less. 

He's not like that. He's not 

(He  _ knows _ those men, remembers being fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, at college and younger than everyone else, at galas and being younger than everybody else, at boardroom meetings and being younger than everyone else, remembers how that hadn’t stopped the looks and touches and willingness to offer Tony a solution, a hint; _ if you want to sweeten the deal, if you want I can show you a good time, god you’re so tempting, Tony, I bet you’d be good for me, wouldn’t you. _ ) 

He's not like that. He's  _ not _ . 

Tony tells himself this, repeats it and repeats it and repeats it over the course of the next few days, avoiding the workshop until it’s Wednesday. It’s nothing. It was just a weird, momentarily misfiring synapse. 

Ten minutes in, he knows it wasn’t. 

He knows he’s probably freaking Peter out, the way Tony's holding back and being short with him and generally just not acting like himself, but Tony is freaking the fuck out and can’t think of a good way to tell Peter ‘go home, stay there, stay away from me because it’s like a switch was flipped off in me and now I can’t even look at you without wanting-’ 

He is not like that. He will not be like that. 

And then Peter smiles at him, no different than usual, just happy and a little too close, and Tony feels it, an utter betrayal by his body - a lurch in his stomach, a skip in his chest, a faint, awful twitch in his cock. 

Carefully, carefully keeps his hands to himself and steps away, casually. 

He's not like them. He refuses to be. 

Careful, Tony thinks, that’s a great word. That’s a good, safe word, a mindset he needs to embody around Peter. It’s not something that comes naturally, easily to him, this idea of thinking first, of watching out, of careful, careful. 

But he can learn. 

So. 

Tony's careful, ok? He is very, very careful, and there are a lot of things he refuses to let himself think about, even a little tiny bit. 

Because, look, Tony knows all the excuses creepy, perverted guys use to justify why this kid half their age, less, underage even, is the perfect one for them. So mature, not like the others, etc etc etc and they're all bullshit, ok? They are. 

But Peter - 

Aw fuck. 

There's an imbalance between them that's impossible to fix, to correct. Tony has power, wealth, influence; and all of those, Peter might have one day, but that day is far in the future. Tony has experience, and that too, Peter might match one day (god he hopes not, if it's paid for in the same blood coin, he wants better for Peter), but the point is, right now, Peter doesn't have any of those, and can't exactly acquire them overnight. 

Peter has a burning crush, a life of hero worship, stars in his eyes and an unwillingness to see how awful Tony has been, what horrible things Tony is really capable of, has caused, and that makes all the difference, really, because that, that Tony can't wish away, that makes it impossible for them to ever regard themselves as equals. 

But his mind, god. 

Tony's met people who can match him, keep up with the pace of his brain. Has met those who can leave him in the dust, in their fields of expertise. They're out there. Just not that many, and not that many that are willing to put up with him, and never, never this young. Peter is so, so smart, and Tony know -  _ knows _ \- one day in the future, Peter is going to surpass him, is going to eclipse him, and Tony almost can't wait for it. 

But now, now it means that Peter can keep up with Tony, he can challenge Tony today, and fuck, Tony loves that. 

It's exhilarating and addicting and way, way too dangerous. 

So Tony carefully keeps Peter categorized in his mind as a kid, and thus completely unavailable, utterly off limits. Because there are some lines you just don't cross, and this will keep Peter safe. 

Tony doesn’t ever, ever want to think about the way his thoughts have slowly started turning. How the weight, the ever present reminder, of needing to protect Peter - from the dangers Tony's put Peter in the way of, from the burdens Tony's placed on him without ever checking if he wanted them, could handle them - that weight has not eased one bit. Has only grown, expanded to protecting Peter from Tony, from this awful twisted thing inside him. 

Doesn’t ever, ever want to think about how his motivation has shifted, refocused, from a feeling of ‘ _ I have a responsibility for him _ ’ to a far more dangerous feeling of ‘ _ I will defend what is mine. _ ’ 

He can make himself safe. He can do this. 

* 

Here’s something Tony almost never thinks about anymore: how often he touches other people. 

He pokes and elbows and bumps into and leans, leans in too close, even looms sometimes. Pats shoulders, pats arms, pats hands, reassuring and friendly and offering what limited comfort he’s capable of. Slings his arm over shoulders and around waists and squeezes and hugs and holds on for longer than he should, and people let him. 

He’s always touching people. 

It wasn’t always like this, not back when he was a kid, a little shy and told, repeatedly, not to be a bother when he was pushy about being held or hugged or comforted, and he’d learned that lesson well. 

And then he’d met James Rhodes, Rhodey, sugar plum, who came from a huge, pushy, touchy feely family. Rhodey, who hung all over Tony like he could tell how touch starved Tony was, and Tony clung right back. Rhodey taught him something important: touching feels good. 

Not sexually good, though obviously that too, but the way all those little, casual touches could be comforting, welcoming, relaxing. It was like a lightbulb turned on, and suddenly Tony wanted everyone to know that. 

And since Tony refuses to be less than perfect at anything he does, he picks the best example to copy; Rhodey-bear, who happens to be totally aware of what Tony’s doing, even if he only brings it up once. 

Practices, fakes it until he makes it, until handsiness is second nature and beyond conscious thought. 

He learns, later than that, how to use the same touches as a tool, a weapon, how to wield his body against other people, defensive and manipulative. That, too, has become second nature, has become as much a part of him as anything else; the habits of posture that says “ _ you can’t fuck around with me _ ”, of smirks that signal “ _ everything about you is a joke that only I know _ ”, of forced casualness and dramatic gestures and sidelong looks that all scream, like one of those poison frogs, bright and loud and dangerous ‘ _ try me, I dare you, see what happens _ ”. 

But this is a thing Tony does, the touching people, and suddenly, he is being forced to be aware of how often, how casually, he is touching Peter. 

Is he touching him more than other people, Tony frets, or less? Or the same? Is his body a traitor, seeking out more without letting his mind know about it? Has he been enjoying touching Peter too much, all along, has this thing been hiding in him for the entire time? 

Does he stop, completely now? Will it be worse if it’s sudden, if Peter starts looking for a reason Tony never touches him any more? Will it be worse if Tony keeps letting himself touch Peter at all? 

How does he stop himself, when it’s not something he even registers any longer? 

Tony can feel himself spiraling deeper into panic about this every time he lets himself think about it, and that’s useless, that’s worse than useless. He can balance this. He can. 

Shoulders, he decides, are ok. Shoulders are safe. He can sling his arm around Peter's shoulders, pat him on the shoulder, lean on his shoulder if they’re looking at something together. Those are acceptable. 

He will not think about the freckles scattered across those shoulders, or how heavily muscled they are, used to support Peter's entire weight as he web-slings from place to place. 

He can do this. 

That doesn’t mean there aren’t … challenges. 

“Ow, ow, shit, ow!” Peter says one day, suddenly and sharply from his bench and Tony is halfway over there before he even thinks about it. 

“What the fuck Peter, what-” but it's pretty obvious what's happened, or rather, what the problem is. There's a piece of something on Peter's shirt, hot and apparently sticky and Peter's shirt is catching on fire around it. Peter tries to beat it out with his hand, tries to yank it off, hurting his hands as well in the process, yelping and cursing and failing to stop it. 

“Fuck!” Tony shouts, and grabs the nearest extinguisher, sprays Peter down with it. 

It puts out the flames, at least, but whatever that is is still attached to the shirt and Peter finally yanks the whole thing over his head, tosses it away. “Ow ow ow ow,” he's saying over and over again, fanning at his chest where there's a large round red spot, raw and shiny. 

“What the hell was that, Peter?” Tony asks, half shouts, his heart pounding way too fast. 

“I don’t know!” Peter says, upset. “I guess - I was trying to hold that piece in place while I soldered it and I needed another hand so I just, webbed it in place for a minute?” He buries his head in his hands. “And maybe forgot about how flammable the webbing was and maybe forgot how it rebounds when it snaps and maybe-” 

“Peter!” Tony says, and he’s not really shouting, ok, he’s not, he’s just …  _ very concerned _ and the best way to convey that is by raising his voice a little but he’s not shouting. “What were you thinking? How many times have we gone over safety in here? Why didn’t you just ask me for help, I’ve got two extra hands for fuck’s sake!” 

“Oh, come on,” Peter shoots back, managing to look both ashamed and angry. “Am I supposed to do as you say or do as you do, Mr. ‘Let’s Reset the Days Without an Incident Sign to Negative Numbers How’s That Sound?’? You have a robot completely dedicated to putting out fires!” He pauses. “Not that he’s very good at it, but still!” 

“Yeah, and I’m trying hard to be better about that,” Tony says, because, ok, the kid has a point, as much as he hates to admit it. “Not that I’m very good at it either.” 

Peter looks at him, sheepish. “Sorry?” he mutters. 

Tony sighs. “Next time,” he says, “just ask for a hand, seriously. Look, you need me to pull out the first aid kit? It’s around here somewhere.” 

“It’s in the far left cabinet,” Peter says, absently, and then “No, it’s almost already gone anyway, Mr. Stark.” 

He shivers a little, still damp from the fire suppressant, his arms crossed over his chest. 

Tony glances over at the sad little pile that is the remains of Peter's shirt, and internally groans. “Here,” he says, muffled for a moment as he pulls his t-shirt over his head, fighting to unstatic it from his longer sleeved undershirt. Tosses it at Peter, who catches it with his usual unerring accuracy. 

Peter stares at it blankly until Tony says, “Oh for- put it on, kid, yours is beyond salvaging.” 

“Ok,” Peter says slowly, and pulls it on. It's a bit big, a little looser than Peter's normal shirts, but it'll work for now. 

“Go home, Peter,” Tony says. “I don’t care if you feel fine now, I need a break at least.” 

He never gets the shirt back. One time, Peter even wears it to the shop, and really, he looks very strange in a Motorhead shirt. Does he even know who they are, Jesus, Tony feels old. 

“Isn't that mine?” Tony says. 

“Nope!” Peter says, his voice high the way it always gets when he's lying. 

“You’ve gotta to get better at this lying thing, kid,” Tony says with amusement. “Seriously though, I'm pretty sure that’s mine.” (It is. There's a handful of tiny burn holes on the right side that Tony remembers.) 

Peter looks shifty. “Maaaaaaybe,” he says. Darts a look over at Tony. “Do you want it back?” he adds, in a small voice. 

Tony looks at him for a few moments. He does like that shirt. It's comfortable and familiar and that was a great tour and if he got it back now it'd probably still smell like Peter and- 

“Keep it,” he says. “It's better than your terrible pun shirts.” 

“Hey!” Peter says, “you totally laughed at the ion you one!” 

“I'm traumatized,” Tony tells him, “by having your humor inflicted on me. It was stockholm syndrome!” 

“You're the worst,” Peter groans. 

A few weeks later, there’s a squashy package on Tony's workbench. Inside, there is the most god awful shirt he's ever seen. It has a kitten, and a rainbow, and a lot of tie-dye, and what he thinks might be a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. It defies description. 

_ Saw this and thought of you,  _ Peter's note says, and Tony can just hear the sarcasm. 

He laughs until he's almost crying and wears it the next time he has a presentation. 

* 

“Please, Mr. Stark,” Peter whispers, presses against him, straddling his lap. “Please, I've wanted this so long, I’ve been so patient.” He kisses Tony, awkwardly, hesitantly, his hands on Tony's chest, and anyone else Tony wouldn't let them touch him there, but it's Peter; Peter does a lot of dumb stuff but he'd never, ever hurt Tony. And then, while Tony is still frozen, Peter kisses him again, more fully on the lips.  _ God, _ Tony thinks,  _ me too, kid, me too, _ and just… stops. Stops resisting, completely. 

Kisses Peter back, lets himself get lost in the feeling of Peter's mouth on his, warm and soft and so fucking good, what he's wanted for so long, god why did Tony wait? 

He tries to raise his hands to Peter's sides, but they feel impossibly heavy, like he's got unpowered gauntlets on them. Like they're stuck to the couch, and then his whole body feels like that, so heavy, limp. Peter pulls back, his mouth reddened. Sighs. 

“I thought you were better than this, Mr. Stark,” he says, his hand over Tony's heart. “You should know better than this.” 

_ Kid, _ Tony wants to say, wants to scream,  _ I'm sorry, I’m sorry, _ but his voice is caught, silent. Peter's fingers clench at Tony's chest, digging in, and then he's holding the arc reactor, Tony's breath hitching in his throat, heartbeat pounding in his head. 

“You don't deserve this,” Peter says, hisses. “You never deserved a second chance.” 

And Tony starts awake, gasping, choking, flailing at the sheets. He scrabbles at his shirt, ripping it upward, and there's no comforting blue glow, nothing – he slides his hand over his sternum and feels nothing but skin and scars, clutches at himself.  _ Surgery, _ his mind whispers, distantly,  _ Extremis. Dr. Woo.  _

It feels like it takes hours for his breathing to finally slow, for his heart to stop racing madly. The images never stop, repeating in an endless loop as he stares at the ceiling 

He never does fall back asleep. When there's finally daylight coming through the windows, he tells Friday to let Peter know Tony won't be at the lab today. 

Peter asks, the week after that, if Tony was alright. “It’s just,” he says, “it was shorter notice than usual, so I was a little worried something had happened.” 

Tony waves it off, not looking at Peter. “Last minute unavoidable meeting, and you know how much I try to avoid meetings. Way more boring than being here, for sure.” 

“Oh, sorry about that then,” Peter says, and his smile is back in place. 

And this? This is where Tony should be responsible, where Tony should say, “Peter, I think we might have to stop meeting for a while.” Should tell Peter, “You can always use the shop I set up for you, but this shop is going to be off limits from now on.” Should tell him, “I’m going to be very busy on a sensitive project, and I won’t be able to see you very much. If it’s an emergency, you know I’ll be there, but the rest of the time, I need to focus on other things.” 

This is the point where he needs to say them. Tony knows this. Peter's only seventeen and Tony needs to keep him safe, and Tony is apparently no longer safe, no matter what he tries to tell himself. Peter won’t say no, wouldn’t stop him if Tony took him up on his crush, so Tony has to stop himself, has to make sure that if he fails, Peter will be safe. 

“Peter,” he says. 

Stops. 

Would it be the right thing, to pull away like this? To leave Peter without his support, again? Last time it hadn’t gone well, hadn’t stopped Peter from putting himself in harm’s way despite what Tony asked of him, hadn’t stopped people from coming after Peter. What would Peter think, would Peter feel, if Tony ripped himself out of Peter's life? Without knowing the real reason, either, because Tony knows even his best lies in this case are flimsy. 

“Yeah?” Peter says, still waiting. 

Tony's not like those men, those fucking creeps. He knows this, despite whatever it is he’s feeling. He knows this. 

He can do this. He can control himself. 

“Eh, nothing,” Tony replies, finally. “Passing thought, already gone. What did you want to work on?” 

He will make himself safe for Peter. 

* 

Here's another fact about Tony Stark: he's never been any good at resisting his desires. 

_ I want it _ , he says, _ I need it, I must have it, _ and it's his, no matter what protests may be thrown around. Wants it, gets it, doesn't matter what, doesn't matter how. There's never been any reason to resist doing exactly as he pleases – who's going to tell him no? Who's going to tell him ‘stop’, make him? Not that they haven’t tried, again and again, but it's never took. 

His desires  _ are _ Tony Stark, and there's nothing he can't have. Can't do it, they tell him, impossible, and all Tony hears is a challenge, is an expectation for him to fail, to be incompetent, to give up; he lives to destroy those, to wave as he's sailing by with the things everyone wants, that only he was bold enough, smart enough, stubborn enough, to make his own. 

Choose one, they tell him.  _ Fuck you _ , Tony says, and chooses both. 

Tony's never been one to turn down a challenge. 

So resisting temptation, resisting when Peter is there with his unbearable crush, right there, just waiting for Tony to take him, wanting for Tony to take him, when Tony could turn to him and have him completely with one word, is like a thorn in his side, always pricking him, always. It would be so, so easy, too easy. Peter could just be  _ his.  _

_ (Warm hands on Tony's shoulders, catching on his suit jacket, and the smell of alcohol on their breath as they lean in, too close and too far and too much; ‘How could I resist’, they say, ‘you're so tempting, Tony. Such a delicious little morsel, I bet you’d be a perfect little slut in bed. How could I possibly resist you?’)  _

The challenge isn't taking, really, is it. The challenge is not, when it's been pushed at him, by Peter's teenage crush and Tony's traitorous body, when no one is going to tell him no. When he wants it, badly enough he can't even admit it to himself most days. Won’t admit to it, most days. 

Tony's never been the one to back down first, and this? This is nothing. He can do this. 

(Here's a final fact about Tony Stark. He’s never been good at resisting his desires. 

_ Make them happy _ , deep in his heart with every beat. Make them smile like that, every day, all the time. And he tries, he tries, he tries. 

Fails, and fails, and fails. 

_ Keep them safe, _ a hook in his stomach, a catch in his throat, a scream in his mind that overwhelms him with terror, constantly, shorting out his reasoning. And he tries, and tries, and tries. 

Fails, and fails, and fails 

_ Do better,  _ in the back of his mind, always, the whisper of a thousand disappointed voices, a thousand last breaths, a thousand accusing stares. Do better, do better, do  _ better _ . And he tries, god, he tries and tries and tries again. And again. And again. 

Fails, and fails, and fails. 

Things would be so much easier if he didn't want to so much.) 

* 

Things level out a little, eventually. 

Tony has a list, that he repeats to himself any time he starts to feel something he shouldn’t, of all the reasons not to. (And there’s so, so many. It goes something like this: Peter's too young. The imbalance of power is too great. It’s morally indefensible. 

Peter deserves better. Tony is not better. 

Tony wants it.) 

He tells himself this list, the litany of why not, over and over, again and again, until it’s unconscious, until those wants are stamped down almost before he can feel them. 

Peter's enrolled in college, starting in just three months, such a short time; not anywhere Tony expected, but locally, Empire State. Tony teases him a little for that - it’s not like Peter's couldn’t get in to just about any university he choose, not like Tony wouldn’t have gladly, happily paid his way. 

“I like New York,” Peter tells him, with a little smile. “I don’t really want to go somewhere else, and my friends are going there too. Besides,” he adds, glancing sidelong at Tony, “I have a feeling I’ll learn more from you than I would from most professors at any college.” 

“Flattering,” Tony says, throwing a bolt from the arm of the suit at Peter - who catches it without looking, spidey sense apparently functioning today - “but hardly accurate. Also, excuse you, I have a life that it not about teaching you things!” 

“Yeah,” Peter says, grinning now, “but you will anyway.” 

Which is true, but still. 

So things are going along smoothly, good, normal, the steady, comforting refrain of  _ Hey, Mr. Stark _ and  _ Hey, kid _ repeated endlessly, every Wednesday and half the days between, it seems. 

And then Peter kisses him. 

Just, turns his head up one day when Tony is leaning over his shoulder to look at Peter's scribbles and presses his lips against Tony's, off kilter. 

Tony freezes. 

“Peter,” he says, pulling back, stepping back, “What are you doing?” 

Peter looks at him, biting his lip. “I-” he starts. “Mr. Stark - Tony - I thought, maybe…” 

Tony feels like every bone in his body is made of metal, heavy, slow.”You’re seventeen, Peter,” and Peter flinches, a little. “I’m not - you are way, way too young, Peter. There is no way something like that could ever happen.” 

Peter sucks in a breath, lowers his eyes to the ground. “But I wanted-” and Tony cuts him off. 

“No, Peter,” he says, sharp now. “Absolutely not, not ever. You’re too young to even know what you want.” Peter jerks back at that, and looks up, his eyes brimming with tears. 

Shit, shit, Tony knew this would go badly, but this is awful. “Let’s just … forget this ever happened, ok, Peter?” 

Peter nods, once, avoiding Tony's gaze. “I’m sorry,” he says, his voice thick and wavering. 

“Look,” Tony says, “I’m just going to call it a night, alright? You stay as long as you want, it’s fine.” 

He turns, right as he leaves, for another look. Peter is just sitting, slumped forward, the picture of dejection. 

“Hey,” Tony says, “in a couple years you’ll laugh about this, I promise.” 

Peter doesn’t respond. 

In the elevator, on the way up, Tony leans back against the wall and lets himself feel, finally. He did it. He didn’t take advantage, didn’t give in to his weaker side, kept Peter safe. 

He thought it’d feel better. 

(If he dreams, that night, over and over and over the same nightmares, he doesn’t remember them, for which he is grateful. He feels like he hasn’t slept at all, and refuses to look at the sleep tracking data from Friday, because he doesn’t want to know how much he forgot. 

He shouldn’t forget those nightmares, ever. He needs the reminder, endlessly, of why not.) 

The next week, Peter doesn’t show. 

Doesn’t call, didn’t leave a note, and as far as Tony knows, isn’t in the middle of battling something (he has alerts, ok, he’s a superhero, he’d need to know about those things even if Peter wasn’t involved. It has nothing to do with Peter specifically.). 

It’s not that Peter hasn’t missed Wednesdays before, for any number of reasons. It’s that he’s always, always let Tony know, one way or another. That’s what has Tony winding up when he realizes Peter isn’t just five, ten, fifteen minutes late, but not coming at all. 

“Friday,” he says, sharp, “run a scan for Peter's location, physical state. He’s not in his workshop, right?” 

“No, boss,” Friday says. ”Peter is in his room, physical state average.” 

“He’s not in any distress?” Tony asks. 

“It doesn’t appear so. Do you want me to get a closer read?” 

“No,” Tony says. “Let’s not invade his privacy any more for once.” 

He taps his fingers on the workbench, thinking. Sort of thinking. He’s not really focused, fragments of thoughts bouncing around his head, glancing off each other. 

This was a mistake, obviously, but pinpointing where he fucked up, what point precisely it started - even, honestly, what exact thing is the mistake here. There are so many options to choose from. 

Tony wants to fix this, he needs to fix this, that’s - that’s what he does, ok, he fucks things up and then he tries to fix them. And yeah, maybe some things aren’t fixable, can’t be undone or remade, but then he can stop them from happening again, if he tries hard enough. 

He really hopes this is not one of those unfixable things. 

Maybe if he- no. 

This is what he’s going to do, he tells himself. He’s going to let Peter decide. He’s going to give Peter whatever space he wants, let him get over this at his own pace. This isn’t something Tony can fix, because fixing it means giving Peter something that Tony absolutely cannot. 

He’s got to let Peter fix this himself. 

Peter doesn’t show up the week after that either, even though Tony stays in the workshop the whole time, working, not waiting, definitely not waiting. Yes, Friday tells him, Peter is fine, Peter is safe, Peter is just avoiding him. That’s fine. 

Fuck, fuck, fuck, maybe- 

It’s fine. 

On the third week, Peter shows up, half an hour later than usual, just as Tony has resigned himself to another week of being ghosted, has resolved to stop fucking moping about it like he’s the teenager here. 

“Hey, webhead,” Tony says.  _ Long time no see, _ he thinks about saying, or maybe  _ not avoiding me anymore? Terrible decision, kid,  _ but he’s not- he doesn’t want to bring it up. “Take a look at this,” he says instead, and flicks a hologram over to Peter. 

Peter blinks at it, a little stiff, uneasy, then pokes the center of the device.“Wait,” he says, “is this the prototype of that nano relay system you were working on?” Pulls it apart and stares at the expanded view. “No way! You solved it? Does it work? Of course it works, you did it, I mean, have you tested it out yet?” 

“You bet,” Tony says. “Wanna give it a go?” he asks, and Peter lights up. 

“You have to ask?” Peter says, grinning, and maybe this is fixable. 

Maybe it doesn’t need to be fixed. 

That’s not to say they slide seamlessly back into how things were. Peter's still a little extra awkward around Tony for months (which is saying something, seriously, Peter deserves a gold medal in awkward). And Tony's still a little twitchy himself, watching what he says, what he does, a little more carefully. 

The problem with fixing things, Tony knows, knows far, far too well, the problem with trying to fix things, is that to fix something, you have to know how to take it apart. 

And if you know how to take it apart, you know how to break it. 

Tony is good at fixing things, great at fixing things, well, things that aren’t people or relationships or messy emotions. See, people are complex in ways that machines aren’t, or at least in completely different ways. Something goes wrong with your code? Revert to the last model. An experiment doesn’t work? It’s fine, as long as you’ve been careful about isolating your tests, because there’s a safety net and now you have more, better data. Nothing’s working at all? There’s always the brute force approach: smash it with a damn hammer. 

Apparently, Tony’s learned, people don’t come with safety nets, with the ability to return to the last fixed model. There isn’t room for him to experiment without having to live with the results forever. And brute force, while effective, is not actually  _ helpful _ . 

He’s good at fixing  _ things _ . But he’s so, so much better at breaking them. 

Sometimes there’s a very, very fine line between disassembling to repair, and breaking. Sometimes, you don’t even know that line has been crossed, until you go to put everything back together and discover nothing fits anymore. Maybe you can rework it, maybe you can add to it until things function, in a cobbled together way, but that doesn’t mean it’s fixed. It doesn’t mean it’s not broken. 

Maybe you can’t do anything at all, except set it aside. Add it to the pile of broken things, of failures. 

Tony has a lot of those. Isn’t that how you learn, by making mistakes? 

Aren’t you supposed to learn something from your mistakes? 

Maybe he has, he thinks, maybe he’s learned just a little, because even though he still tries to piece the things he’s taken apart back together, he’s seen now how another pair of eyes, a different perspective, can see how to fit things back together where Tony only sees failure. 

Sometimes, just because Tony can’t fix it, it doesn’t mean it’s unfixable. 

So, no, it’s not quite the same, even if they never, ever talk about how Peter kissed him, but it’s still something that works, cobbled together, functional but not refined. 

It’s still not right, not mended to exactly what it was, but even though Tony was only seeing all the ways things weren’t working, Peter’s done something with them. Peter’s stuck something in there, retrofitted, reworked, adapted bits that were never meant to go together into something almost seamless, like that weird pottery thing or superglue, webbing- ugh this analogy is all falling apart, where was he going with it? 

The point is, Peter’s fixed what Tony couldn’t. There’s still an easy comfort in working together, there’s still trust between them. 

Still that refrain, over and over.  _ Hey, Mr. Stark. Hey, kid.  _

Peter pretends that he doesn’t still have a crush on Tony (still, god, how long is the kid going to hang on to this), pretends that Tony's praise isn’t the most important thing to him, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t true, it doesn’t mean it’s not still really obvious to Tony, all the time. 

He appreciates the attempt though. Maybe, if Peter pretends long enough, it’ll come true. 

(Tony pretends he doesn’t still have dreams, frequently, dreams about Peter kissing him and touching him all over and saying how much he’s wanted this, how much he wants Tony, how good Tony's been for him. Doesn’t still have dreams about Peter, disappointed and angry and betrayed, ripping out the reactor and shredding the armor and letting Tony fall, endlessly, watching without emotion as he dies, over and over again. 

Doesn’t still have dreams about blasted landscapes, towers of rubble and bodies, everyone Tony's ever cared about sprawled in front of him, blank eyed and breathless, silent. Where it isn’t Steve who demands answers, but Peter, grasping at Tony, clinging desperately to his last heartbeats, scared, confused as he asks, begs,  _ why, why did you let this happen, Mr. Stark? Why didn’t you stop it?  _

If he pretends long enough, maybe it’ll come true.) 

* 

Time moves on. 

Eighteen, and Peter's about to start college. He’s distracted, excited and nervous and all over the place, like an overeager puppy. It’s equal parts annoying and stupidly endearing; Tony can’t really remember if he ever felt like that, going off to university. He doesn’t think so - maybe mostly impatience, and dread. The pressure, from everyone, to continue living up to his reputation, to keep advancing, and the way the freedom he thought he’d have was snatched away by an endless parade of reporters and paparazzi and classmates eager to make money off telling tales. 

Not that it stopped Tony, but it was still a bitter lesson to learn. Don’t try and hide anything, because they will find out. Show them, flaunt it, and they might take the bait, but it dies down faster, not as juicy as a secret. 

Still too revealing for teenage Tony, though. 

Of course, he was younger than Peter, too. Maybe he should try and warn Peter, give him a few stories of Tony's worst hits? Then again, it’s not like Peter hasn’t spent the last year and change dealing with invasiveness from his very public outing as Spiderman, despite Stark Industries and the new Avengers and SHIELD’s best efforts to shut all that down. 

Tony never had that. 

He thinks Peter will do better. 

The distraction isn’t great, though, because when Peter's not paying attention, he makes mistakes. Makes poor decisions. Like this. 

“What,” Tony says, “no, seriously, what were you even going for here?” 

Peter groans, and drops his head into his hands. Tries to. Is foiled by the fact that he’s hanging a foot off the ground, unable to raise either hands to his shoulders, wrapped in his own webbing and somehow - really, Tony does not want the full story here - attached to U. 

“It was a miscalculation,” Peter starts, and Dum-e beeps excitedly from where he too is stuck, the end of his arm somewhere below the upper joint of U’s arm. Dum-e attempts to roll backwards and almost brings the whole mess over. Tony lurches forward, like he’d have any chance of catching two tons of metal and coding and teenager and stupidity, and Peter yelps, “Dum-e, no! Don’t move!” 

Dum-e continues to bounce his arm up and down, but at least it’s in place. If a robot could look resigned, U would. 

“You know, on second thought, I don’t even want to know what kind of miscalculation would cause this,” Tony says. 

“Mr. Stark, it wasn’t my fault! Not really!” Peter says. “It was like eighty-five percent Dum-e!” 

“Yeah, no,” Tony says with a shake of his head. “Somehow I don’t believe that.” 

“What!” Peter says, indignant. “You always blame Dum-e for everything! Last week you told him you’d send him down to lobby as an art installation!” He kicks his legs, trying to twist out of the webbing. 

Tony smirks. “Oh, sure, but I’m betting it was more like a good ninety-eight percent chance it was all Dum-e’s fault.” 

Peter laughs at that, at least, even if Dum-e whistles and tries to roll away again. “I’m more concerned,” Tony adds, “with how you roped - literally, ha - U into this. You’re corrupting innocents now!” 

“No one in this lab is innocent,” Peter mutters. “Come on, Mr. Stark, help me get down!” 

“It’s just so tempting to leave you there,” Tony says. “Friday, make sure we’ve got a picture of this.” 

Peter makes a face at him, and Tony goes to dig up some of the fast acting solvent they developed (Yeah, it dissolves in an hour or so, and you can, with some effort, cut it, but there have been enough web related incidents so far that Tony caved and whipped something up, for his own self preservation.) 

It takes a lot longer to get the webbing out of all the crevices in the bots, which is all Peter's job, while Tony rummages around in one of the cabinets. Ah-ha! 

“Here,” he says, “you’ve earned it,” and drops the dunce cap on Peter's head. “Congratulations,” he says, “You have managed to snag the title for most useless from a robotic arm. I think I speak for everyone when I say this is your crowning achievement.” 

“Aw, come on Mr. Stark,” Peter whines. “That's not fair!” 

“Nope, this is what happens when you do stupid things with my robots.” 

Peter grumps, but doesn’t take it off. 

(“Friday,” Tony says, under his breath, “Make sure we get a picture of that too.” He’s saving them for when Peter graduates. It’s going to be  _ great _ .) 

Tony keeps a slightly closer eye on him after that for a while, though. Peter’s too tired, too worn out, more than he should be, and Tony has no idea how to fix that, no bead on what is causing it. Peter seemed to be adjusting well, and then suddenly, he wasn’t. He can’t pry why out of Peter, and the obvious possibilities he’d think of for any other teenager are right out. 

He’d try to keep Peter out of the shop, maybe, if he thought it would help, would give him more time to recover from … whatever he’s doing, but he knows it wouldn’t stick, for either of them. 

Probably wouldn’t even help, if Peter finds this to be as comforting as Tony does. But that’s just speculation, Tony thinks, guiltily. 

Halfway through the year, they hit a tipping point, and Tony finally tells SHIELD to fuck off, for real. He is beyond tired of their bullshit, of their secrets and misuse of Tony's  _ kindly donated _ technology and Nick Fury’s compelete inability to be on top of anything in the world, despite the fact that that is what he’s built his  _ entire fucking reputation on _ . 

But the last straw? The absolute, break his back, fucking last straw? Is when Peter comes in one Wednesday, quiet and downcast and just, kicked puppy sad. Jesus, it’s depressing to even look at. “Hey, Mr. Stark,” he says, and even his voice is thin. 

“What happened to you, Shelob?” he asks. 

“Nothing,” Peter says quickly, and that’s unusual, Peter lives to complain to Tony. 

Tony spins his stool around. Peter glances up at him, and then back down, quickly. 

Peter's been crying, his eyes reddened and puffy. What the hell. 

“No, really, what happened?” Tony says, sharp, seriously concerned now, and when Peter just shakes his head, “Friday, where was Peter before he came here?” 

“Hey-” Peter starts, as Friday informs Tony that Fury had been meeting with all of the Avengers privately today. 

“What did he do?” Tony asks. He still hasn’t quite forgiven Fury for pushing Peter in Berlin like that, putting so much weight on him when there were plenty of other superheroes available. Testing Peter, like that. 

Fury’s always been about doing what he thinks is needed, and never mind what gets broken along the way. Not that Tony has any history of that. 

Peter slumps a little more. “I told him I might want to take a break from the Avengers, while I’m in college. I mean, I’d be there for anything world threatening, but the rest of the time, the smaller missions? I don’t know if I can keep up with those and school.” God, that sounds familiar, Tony thinks, guiltily. 

Peter glances over at him, probably remembering the same conversation, the same awkward excuses, the way Tony had just steamrolled right over him. “I know, I know,” he says, with a kind of shaky laugh, “Homework is no excuse, but, I don’t know, I guess I’d like the chance to try out normal, without it being a problem.” 

“Peter,” Tony says, “you’re not even a full time Avenger at this point. I mean, sure, I dubbed you so in space, but that doesn’t hold up in registry terms. You shouldn’t even be going out on those sorts of missions anyway.” 

“They said it was good teamwork practice,” Peter says, “and there haven’t been that many, but with that and patrolling my neighborhood and school and them maybe increasing, it’s just … a lot.” He ducks his head lower. “Mr. Fury said I hadn’t changed. That despite everything, I was still the same scared kid he saw in Prague. Said maybe I’ll never outgrow that.” 

“He said  _ what _ ?” Tony says, numb for a moment before his rage ignites, overwhelming. 

Peter shrugs. “Maybe he’s right,” he says. 

“No,” Tony tells him through gritted teeth. “No, he most certainly is  _ not _ . You - you stay here. Work on your polarization enhancements like we talked about. I’m just going to - I’ll be back.” 

_ Fuck you _ is just the start of the things he says to Fury about that. Along with  _ Don’t even think of asking me for help again _ , and  _ You can shove your consultant position up your ass _ and a bunch of other things that have the bridge crew where he stormed in on Fury looking at each other nervously. 

He doesn’t take back the compound, but for a few hours it’s a near thing. 

Tony refuses to think about how loudly he just declared that Peter is  _ his _ , and you don’t fuck around with what belongs to Tony Stark without consequences. 

He's already made the mistake of putting too much on Peter, too fast, without considering what Peter wants. He’s not going to allow someone else to make the same mistake. 

Peter gets his break, and he uncoils, slowly, the bags under his eyes appearing less and less. He still goes out with the Avengers when they muster about once a month or so, but it’s generally for the smallest missions, the ones that actually are good practice. He breezes through the lower level requirement classes, and jumps ahead in his physics and chemistry and data structures classes by his second semester. 

He’s still there, every Wednesday. 

_ H _ ey _ , Mr. Stark.  _

_ Hey, kid.  _

One day, Tony feels like he's being watched, like- he glances over at Peter, who's not even pretending to work, just watching him with a kind of goofy grin on his face. 

“What?” Tony says. “Something on my face?” 

Peter shakes his head. “Just,” He shrugs. “I'm glad whatever you’re working on is going well.” 

Tony narrows his eyes at that. “And how do you know that?” he says. “I don't remember telling you anything about this particular project.” 

“Yeah,” Peter says, “but you're like…” and he just waves his hand at Tony, up and down. 

“Wow, Peter, use your words.” 

Peter flushes a little at that. “I mean, the rattier you're dressed down here, the happier you seem to be, like sometimes you just need to get really elbows deep in something. And you're especially ratty even for you right now,” he finishes, looking away. 

_ What _ , Tony thinks, and glances down at his clothes. Ok, yes, these pants have seen better days and there are definitely some new stains on them – he doesn't even know what that one is – but they're comfy, and yeah, his shirt has holes in it and big oily smear across it, but it's a classic, and … and maybe Peter has a point, he is a little rattier than usual. He's gotten used to mostly wearing versions of his undersuit down here, but sometimes it's nice – comforting – to slip on something like this. The sort of stuff he used to wear ages ago, when he was fussing with his cars for fun and distraction and not because the safety of the world rested on his inventions. 

“I mean,” Peter continues, “it's kind of cute. One minute, you're on tv in some designer suit from somewhere I can’t even pronounce and looking rich and fussy, and an hour later you look like some homeless teenager, I don’t know.” 

Tony points a wrench at Peter. “Cute is not a word that has or will ever apply to me.” 

“Sure, Mr. Stark.” 

Tony shakes the wrench at him. 

“I don't know,” Tony says, looking down at himself. “People expect the fancy suits, when you're the face of a business.” 

But you’ve got to save them for the impact to hit people - dress like that all the time, and people stop noticing. It’s armor, really, just a different kind, and while it doesn’t do a damn to stop bullets, it stops enough assholes in their tracks. Sure, t-shirts and blazers and sneakers are a hell of a lot more comfortable, and he can get away with that now, but when he was still in his twenties, taking over the titan that was Stark Industries? He’d needed to not look like a kid. 

“Anyway,” he says, striking a pose. “I make it look good.” 

Peter blushes and looks away, not quickly enough to hide the way his eyes slide up the length of Tony's body, and Tony feels that hindsight flash of  _ shouldn't have done that _ . 

“Yeah,” Peter says, “It's all the latest trend in hobo chic.” 

“Like you’d even know,” Tony retorts. He’s got to get this kid into a decent suit, maybe a Lavin or an Etro, Peter might actually like that. 

* 

Nineteen, and Peter's settled in to college life. Made a few new friends, gone to a few parties, even joined the university quizbowl group after Tony prodded him a bit about extracurriculars. “I don’t have time, Mr. Stark,” Peter had said. 

“Make time,” Tony replies, and Peter rolls his eyes at him. “Ok,” Tony amends, “but if you want to, at all, I’ll help you find time. Don’t let college be all about the classes, you need some fun in your life.” 

Peter doesn’t need to isolate himself again, dropping everything he can in his life on the off chance Tony might need him. That’s not good. 

“Yeah,” Peter says, staring down at the mechanics he’s working on, “maybe you’re right.” 

“Always,” Tony tells him. “Listen to me, I’m a voice of reason.” 

“Well that’s wrong,” Peter says with a laugh. 

So they find time, Tony leaning a bit on Rhodey to make the case to the rest of the new team for helping Peter with patrolling his neighborhood, sneakily bribing the university to move one of Peter's required class times away from the same time the first competition happens. Makes it work. 

Peter gives him a card. 

Well, leaves it on his workbench, rather, but the idea’s the same. 

It’s Iron Man themed, which is bad enough. Inside, it says  _ Congratulations on your excellent aim! Thanks, you’re the best! _ , with ‘aim’ crossed out and ‘manipulating’ penciled in. Peter's name is at the bottom, with a smiley face. 

Tony grins and sticks it on the wall. 

Peter never mentions it, even though he looks at it the next Wednesday, right after his “Hey, Mr. Stark.” 

About a month and a bit later, there’s another card, wedged under a piece of armor on Tony's bench. This one’s Halloween themed, also with Iron Man, and an altered message. God, when did he license all these? 

It’s terrible. He adds it to the wall. 

They keep coming, all of them Iron Man or, sometimes Spiderman themed - where is he finding all of them? - and it’s ridiculous how much they amuse Tony. They never talk about it, though Peter will sometimes just stop and look at the growing collection on the far wall and grin. 

It’s equally ridiculous how much Tony's started to look forward to them. 

In April, it’s a baby shower one - how is Iron Man ever relevant to that, seriously, who is in charge of his marketing department? - and the crossed ‘baby boy’ line says ‘Organic Chemistry’. 

Which is pretty great, actually. Peter had agonized over his degree options, unable to choose. He’d had lists and lists and lists of pros and cons and arguments and one day he’d say he had decided, and then the next, change his mind. 

It’s not that important in the grand scheme, Tony tries to tell him. It’s just a foundation, Peter's going to pick up plenty of other stuff along the way, as he needs it. Tells Peter to pick what he loves, which sure, has become pretty shit advice for anyone looking for a career anymore, but for Peter? Whatever he picks, employers are going to be fighting over him. (Doesn’t matter: Stark Industries has first dibs if Peter wants, and Tony is like ninety-eight percent sure he can get Peter to want.) 

Besides, there’s nothing to stop him from getting another degree, and another, and another, like Tony did. You know, if Peter really needs the piece of paper to tell him he’s achieved competency in something. (He doesn’t tell Peter that last part, as Peter hasn’t entered Tony’s circle of cynicism yet. That’s a good thing, really.) 

Peter continues to waffle. 

Maybe it’s really just Tony. After all, his choices were … not really choices. There’s probably not a single universe in which Tony wouldn’t have gone with engineering; he thinks that’s just a basic fact, the definition of what he is, in the end. Make it, break it, fix it, make it better; repeat. And physics? Well. Howard made it clear that Tony would be following in his footsteps, so it was a good thing Tony was mechanically inclined, because physics it was. 

(“Be practical,” Howard had told him when Tony tried to argue for robotics, “as difficult as that is for you.” 

“But it’s the cutting edge of technology,” Tony had argued, “this is the direction the world is going in!” 

“You’re going to be making weapons,” Howard said, “and there’s never going to be a computer smart enough to make the decision of when to fire and when not to.”) 

He’d been wrong; so, so wrong, but still, Tony majored in physics, and engineering. Took as many robotics and programming and artificial intelligence classes as he could cram in, despite Howard’s disappointment in ‘your useless rolling arm, what does it even do? Hasn’t learned much, for a learning system’. And took as many astrophysics and astronomy and aerospace classes as he could cram in too, because that’s what physics could do for  _ Tony _ \- space. 

One day, he told himself. 

He was right about that, but still, he spent twenty years making more and better and bigger and more terrible weapons, spent years proving that robotics and artificial intelligences more than had a place in the world; they were the future. And spent years trying to fix all that, over and over, first. 

In the end, he hadn’t majored in what he loved most, like he’s telling Peter to do, and it hadn’t mattered, it hadn’t stopped him from doing it. He hadn’t majored in chemistry, or neuroscience, or environmental sciences, either, and he’d still picked up enough over time that it hadn’t mattered one bit. Hell, he’d even know just enough wetware to get by, to be dangerous, to come at Maya’s roadblock from a different angle. 

To survive, in a cold, complete unhospitable cave in the fucking desert 

He’d had to step that up after Afghanistan, if he wanted to keep himself alive without involving doctors. Not that it hasn’t proven useful in plenty of ways since then, but still - wait, he’d been going somewhere with this - eh. 

The point was, if Peter wanted to, he could learn anything he wanted or needed to, regardless of what letters came after his name. 

“So you’re abandoning us for soft and squishy things, huh?” Tony says the next time they see each other. 

Peter looks confused for a second, and then grins. “Not that squishy!” he says. “I mean, I suppose you made a relatively compelling argument for inorganic or physics, but then again, you didn’t come up with web fluid.” 

“I came up with Iron Man!” Tony sputters. “I think that’s a step up!” 

“Oh please,” Peter says, grinning. 

“Hey,” Tony says. “How many physical chemists does it take to wash a beaker?” 

“I’m not going to like this, am I?” 

“None! That's what organic chemists are for! Congrats on your new beaker washing career move,” Tony says. 

Peter sticks out his tongue at Tony. “Hey,” he says. “How many engineers does it take to change a light bulb?” He pauses, and Tony is not going to answer that, he’s not. “None. They are all too busy trying to design the perfect light bulb.” 

“I wouldn’t know,” Tony says loftily. “I’ve never changed a lightbulb in my life.” 

“That’s a lie,” Peter says. “I watched you do so three weeks ago!” 

“Then there’s a fallacy in your joke,” Tony says, smug. “What are you going to do if no one laughs at your chemistry jokes?” 

“Everyone will laugh at my chemistry jokes,” Peter replies. 

“Ugh, you ruined it,” Tony whines. “The answer is: keep telling them until you get a reaction! Eh? Eh?” 

Peter groans. “Ok,” he says. “What’s the definition of an engineer?” 

“A genius, obviously,” Tony says, grinning. 

“Wrong!” Peter says gleefully. “Someone who solves a problem you didn't know you had, in a way you don't understand.” 

“No, you’re wrong,” Tony says, and he is not laughing, he is not laughing even one tiny bit. 

“Oh yeah?” Peter challenges, and he is laughing, grinning ridiculously wide. “What if engineering isn’t that hard, it’s just that engineers are especially whiney?” 

“I resemble that,” Tony says, and then they’re both gone, giggling like idiots. 

“Seriously, though, all jokes aside,” Tony says, with almost a straight face, “I am very proud of my bouncing baby chemistry monster,” and they’re off again. 

“Don’t look at me,” Peter gasps, “I can’t breathe.” 

“This is your fault,” Tony says, avoiding looking at Peter as he wipes the tears from his eyes. 

“Lies!” 

“Hey,” Tony says, “hey.” 

“No,” Peter groans. “No , don’t say it.” 

“What’s the difference between chemistry jokes and physics jokes?” Tony says, barely able to get it out in one string. 

“No!” Peter wheezes. “I don’t want to know!” 

“Chemistry jokes can be funny periodically, but physics jokes have more potential!” 

“I hate you forever, Mr. Stark.” 

* 

The world almost ends, again, and Tony doesn’t need to do anything. 

He still is ready to, standing by in the suit and hyped up, waiting for the word, but … the new Avengers have it. Shuri’s got him beat on the tech, analogous repluser devices of her own design. Sam might not have the serum, but he’s still damn good with the shield, and Hope is the most annoying - in a truly useful way - flying insect ever created. Carol has a good eye for strategy, even if the strategy called for at the moment is just ‘fucking kill them’. Hulk smashes, more content and less divided than he’s ever been, Bruce finding a balance Tony's always hoped to see. 

His heart is in his throat though, his body tense and just waiting to jump in, as he watches Rhodey, and Peter, watches them determined and unstoppable and so, so vulnerable. They are his, his, in a way the rest of the team isn’t, and it’s so hard to do nothing. 

But he needs to. This team needs their chance, needs to be able to stand on their own. And they do, they do, but it’s a bizarre experience for Tony, watching, not fighting. 

He takes a longer, indirect flight back home, let himself wind down in the suit, not hurting at all for once. This is what he’s always loved best, really; flight, freedom, safety, just him and the armor. 

When he gets back, Peter is bouncing off the walls, still wound up with adrenaline and the high of winning. “Did you see?” he asks, jittering in place, “And what about the - and how I just- and then Captain Marvel just, wham!” It goes on in that vein for a while, Peter rehashing every bit of the battle. 

Finally, Tony convinces him to go hang out with his teammates - where he should have gone first, really, should be looking for their approval and enthusiasm, not Tony's - and watches for a bit, through the cameras. When did so many of them get so young? 

Tony feels a lot older than usual, suddenly. 

It doesn’t help when Peter calls ‘Heartbreaker’ AC/DC. 

“What,” Tony says, flatly. “ _ What _ did you say?” 

Peter looks at him, completely innocent, and Tony really, really isn’t sure if Peter meant that, or if he’s just messing with Tony. Then again, every now and then Peter will reference ‘that really old thing’ and Tony will automatically start to tell him it’s not that old, it was only like ten … ok maybe fifteen … aw shit, what year is it again? 

“Uh, AC/DC?” Peter repeats, tilting his head to the side. 

“You are killing me,” Tony tells him. “AC/DC, honestly. Led Zeppelin! It’s clearly Led Zeppelin! Come on, it’s one of their most popular songs! AC/DC, really,” he mutters. 

When he looks up, Peter is blushing a little, and see, now Tony feels a little bad. “Well, I didn’t know,” he mumbles, crossing his arms. Then narrows his eyes at Tony, and Tony can just feel how Peter's about to wind him up. “After all,” Peter says, with a shrug, “they all kind of sound the same after a while.” 

Tony sputters, can’t even get words out, reduced to pointing at Peter and then throwing a stylus at him. “No!” He finally gets out. “No they do not!” 

“Well,” Peter says, and he’s smiling, smirking, tiny and trying to hide it and Tony is not going to like this, he knows. “I don’t listen to very much of that stuff, I’m not old like you.” 

Ouch. “One day,” Tony tells him, “one day someone is going to tell you that your favorite band is old folks home music, and you will look back on this moment and feel appropriately sorry for your words.” 

“Nah,” Peter says, “you deserve it.” 

Tony groans. “Seriously, though,” he says, “we have got to introduce you to some classics here. How long have you been intruding in my shop and listening to my music and you still have no taste and no clue? How is this possible? How could I have neglected you so terribly?” 

“I like some of it,” Peter says, “but it’s mostly white noise now. You know, swing by, say hi, turn down your music, get to work.” 

Ok, it’s kind of white noise for Tony too, sometimes, loud and heavy and familiar enough that it drowns out his endlessly chattering thoughts, that he can shove a tiny bit of focus at in and make a clear space in his head for the rest. Still. This, he can fix. 

By the time Peter leaves, Tony has already sent a playlist to his phone with a good two dozen starter songs, and a comment on how there will be a quiz next week. (There will not. That is way too much work for Tony to put into this.) 

As it turns out, this is a mistake. 

Because while Peter listens and learns, he also discovers opinions, which are  _ wrong _ opinions. “No,” Tony says, “no, no way is Void better than Reagan Youth! Not a chance.” 

“Yes,” Peter insists, “they are! Totally are! Just because Reagan Youth was better known doesn’t mean they were actually more talented! Come on, Void’s vocals were way cooler.” 

“Are you saying I like them because they’re popular?” 

“Sure!” 

“No! Come on, listen to Authority and tell me, to my face, that it’s better than Degenerated.” 

“Oh, easily, put it on.” 

This is the worst. 

* 

Twenty, and Peter's graduating, a year early, moving onto his masters with barely a pause. They invite Tony to give the commencement speech, and even though he doesn’t do those very often any more, he accepts with glee. “Don’t you dare do something to single me out or embarrass me,” Peter threatens. “I mean it, Mr. Stark.” 

“I would never,” Tony says. 

(He does. He absolutely does. There are pictures, of a certain incident with a certain couple of robots. There may be a comment about what you can achieve while still being smart about it, unlike the example shown in these images. He might have possibly told Peter to stand up and wave. 

Peter forgives him, eventually.) 

And then it’s winter, late winter, and New York is terrible in the winter, it’s when Tony misses Malibu the most. Peter’s still there every Wednesday, but he’s almost completely stopped coming by outside of that, too busy to find time. Maybe he’s finally caught a girlfriend. 

Tony’s caught a cold. 

Tony does not get sick very often. Which is kind of surprising, actually, considering how much time he spends around other people who are carrying so many germs, and how run down he gets sometimes, and how delicate his body can be. 

(Which is not that surprising, since Tony knows how vulnerable he is, knows the risk that a giant gaping hole in his chest and reduced lung capacity and increased heart issues and a liver damaged by drinking and further damaged by the pain meds he takes now and the constant repetition of damage from fighting. 

The only thing that’s changed is the absence of the reactor, but his artificial sternum and ribs are still a weak spot. Yeah, he knows how close he can come to dying every single day from anything in the world, so he doesn’t take things from people and he gets his shots and he takes an overabundance of preventatives and any times he has suspicions of an illness he attacks it head on.) 

He doesn’t get sick very often, but it still happens, from time to time. And this time, he feels like shit. It’s really not even that bad, ‘just a cold’ they said, the kind of stupid viral infection that they still can’t do much of anything about. Sleep and fluids and steam and something for the coughing and wait it out, fuck Tony hates this. 

It’s day three and it’s been two days more than he wanted to feel like this and it’s Wednesday. It’s Wednesday and he should tell Friday to tell Peter than Tony's not coming, because Tony feels like shit. 

He loves Wednesdays though. He wants - he’s the worst when he’s sick, he’s whiny and clingy and obnoxious as hell, and unhappy about all of those things and so even more of an asshole than usual, and once they were sure he wasn’t going to die, he’d successfully - unfortunately - driven Pepper and Happy away, and Rhodey was busy, and Tony wants company, ok? 

Peter's already there when he makes his way down. “Hey, Mr. Stark,” he says, and then glances over at Tony. His expression slides into concern. 

“Hey, Boris,” Tony rasps, maybe leaning on the door frame, maybe clinging a little, whatever. 

“What?” Peter says, giving Tony a very confused look. 

“Ugh, I’ll add it your playlist,” Tony tells him, and Peter frowns. 

“You don’t look so great, Mr. Stark,” he says. 

“I’m fine,” Tony says, and then coughs. Fuck, that hurts. It always makes him feel like he can’t quite catch his breath afterwards. 

“Yeah, I don’t think that’s true,” Peter says. 

“I’m fine,” Tony insists, again, and manages to make it over to his seat without any further signs of sickness. He hopes. “Friday, pull up the EEG data from Rhodey’s last test.” 

Peter stays quiet after that, but Tony can tell Peter’s watching him. It’s fine. Tony isn’t really getting anything done; he can’t focus all that well, not that he’s going to admit it, and he’s learned by now that impaired engineering doesn’t hold up. And engineering that doesn’t hold up costs lives. He just wanted the comfort of this, his workshop, his space, his - Peter. It’s fine. 

There’s a space of time there where he rests his chin on his hand, elbow on the bench, and zones out, staring at the numbers scrolling by. He zones out, not falls asleep, ok? He’s sick, ok? So he can get some extra leniency, he deserves it. He’s sick. He’s- 

Something jerks him out of his doze, maybe something he heard, or his head falling forward too much. His whole head feels like it’s stuffed with cotton, like he’s a couple hours out from a concussion. Shit, was he messing around with something stupid again? “Jarvis,” he says, and ugh, his nose is stuffed up too, had he given himself a nosebleed? “J, what happened?” 

There’s silence for longer than usual, and then a completely different voice says “Mr. Stark, I think you fell asleep. Um. There isn’t a Jarvis here. Friday?” 

A woman's voice answers him. “Jarvis was my predecessor,” and shit, fuck, everything’s coming back to Tony now, wow, this is awful. “You did fall asleep for about twenty minutes, boss.” 

“Maybe you really should go back to bed, Mr. Stark.” 

“I’m  _ fine,” _ Tony snaps. 

“No,” Peter says, his tone a little harder. “You’re really, really not. Friday, how long has he been like this?” 

If Friday replies, Tony doesn’t really notice, because Peter is pulling at him, Peter is straight up yanking him off his seat and hauling him over to the couch like Tony doesn’t even get a choice about it. “Come on, Mr. Stark,” Peter says, sounding a little exasperated, “work with me here, don’t make me carry you back upstairs.” 

Ugh, no. Anything but that. 

He lets Peter settle him on the couch, and then hover over Tony annoyingly. “Can I get you anything, Mr. Stark?” 

“No,” Tony mutters, “go away.” 

Peter makes an annoyed little noise. “Friday,” he asks, “is there any sort of cold medicine down here?” 

There’s the first aid kit in the cabinet, which Peter rummages through for a minute, obviously not finding what he wants. Tony sulks on the couch. He knows he’s being obnoxious, but he hates this. 

“Fine,” Peter says, and points at Tony. “Don’t you dare move,” he says, and while Tony would normally immediately disobey, not moving sounds pretty good, actually. 

Peter goes over, pops open the window, and web-slings away. 

Well, Tony did tell him to go. 

He tips over onto the arm of the couch and drifts away. He’ll probably regret not going up to bed tomorrow, but that’s tomorrow so whatever. 

He wakes up some uncertain time later, to Peter gently shaking his shoulder and saying his name. 

“Hey,” Peter says, “here, sit up a little,” and shoves a big mug at him when he does. 

Tony blinks at it, and then sniffs it. It’s warm and smells salty and meaty. “Did you really bring me chicken soup?” he asks. 

“No,” Peter says, dumping out a collection of little boxes and bottles from a paper bag. “I brought you soto ayam. Drink it.” He pops open one of the bottles and peels off the little foil top. 

Tony does. It’s not bad, really, warm and heavily seasoned and spicy enough he can almost taste it even if he can still barely smell it. Peter hands him a bottle of water and a couple of yellow pills and a couple of blue ones. Tony raises an eyebrow at him 

“They’re just decongestants and extra strength tylenol,” Peter says, smiling a little. 

“What am I, twelve?” Tony grouses. 

“Well you’re certainly acting like it.” 

Tony doesn’t have a good response to that, because yeah, he kind of is. He takes the stupid pills. Peter takes away his water and replaces it with a cough suppressant, and Tony internally sighs and takes it too. 

“Right,” he says, “great, you’ve doped me up, now you can go.” 

“Wow,” Peter says, “you’re really cranky when you’re sick. Also, kind of dumb, apparently,” which hey, really? 

“Of course I’m not going anywhere,” Peter says, and flops down on the couch in the corner opposite Tony. “Hey Friday,” he says, “you can project my screen over here too, right?” 

“Of course,” Friday says, “I’m insulted, really.” Peter laughs at that and starts scrolling through his notes. 

Tony leans his head back against the top of the couch, staring up at the ceiling. This is dumb. It’s not like he doesn’t have more and better versions of all the stuff Peter brought him upstairs, it’s not like Tony didn’t already take better medicine than this before he came down. Peter treating him like he can’t take care of himself? Annoying. Insulting. Ridiculous. 

Kind of nice. 

“Sorry I’m so obnoxious,” he mutters, very quietly, half hopeful that Peter won’t even hear him. 

“You’re not really,” Peter says, “everyone’s pitiful when they’re sick.” 

“Yeah, well, you’re the dissenting opinion there,” Tony says. He’s sick, he tells himself, so that excuses what he says next. “I’m kind of too much to handle even when I’m not sick, and this just dials it up to eleven.” 

“That’s my reference,” Peter says, and then, “I don’t know. Maybe? I mean. Um,” he trails off. 

It’s true though. See, Tony does have options. 

There’s this thing Tony can do. Because he knows he's a lot. He's more than most people can – want – to handle. And sometimes, he really wants to be not too much. He really wants them to stay. 

So he looks at what they want from him and he takes whatever is left over and shoves it inside a box inside himself. It's not perfect, it's like, a wooden box so it's a bit warped and things leak out – ugh ok so this is not the best metaphor. The point is, if he really, really tries, he can make himself less for them. And then they're more likely to forgive the times he slips and lets the rest of himself come through 

He's done it before. 

So. It's an option. 

The other choice? The one that Tony eventually embraced, has come to embody completely? Was forced to embrace, because he couldn't keep living shutting himself down every second of every day for something that might not stay anyway? Is to never be anything less than he is. He's too much? You haven't even a clue. You can't handle him? No one can, baby, I'm an original. You're not going to stay unless I turn myself into something you wish I were? Don't let the door hit you on your way out. 

It's a lot lonelier, to be sure, but he doesn't feel like he's suffocating on half breaths every second. 

Maybe, maybe, one day someone won't care, but that day sure hasn’t come yet. 

God, he really is incredibly obnoxious when he’s sick. 

“It’s like,” Peter says, and Tony has completely lost the thread of this conversation. “You can be a lot? You kind of just are a lot because, uh, Tony Stark! Iron Man! You know, that stuff. Have you ever not been like that? But anyway. It’s a lot but I don’t think it’s too much. It just is. It’s just you, you know? Ugh, none of this is making sense, I’ll just shut up now, sorry.” 

“Oh,” Tony says. “Ok.” There’s something about that makes him feel vaguely like he should say something mentorish, advice or something, where had he been going with that? 

“Hey,” he says, “don’t forget that. You know. Spiderman, and being smart and uh, being you. You’re a lot. It’s good. Don’t try and make yourself small for any reason.” He’s not sure that makes a lot of sense, but he’s having a lot of trouble stringing his thoughts together in one neat row. 

Peter's looking at him, a little strangely. A little sad? No, more like confused. “Sure thing, Mr. Stark,” he says. “I won’t do that.” 

“That’s good,” Tony says, and then he’s slipping away, so tired. 

When he wakes up, it’s ten hours later, he has an enormous crick in his neck, Peter is gone, and he feels at least seventy percent better. 

* 

Twenty-one, and Peter's busy all the time, trying to balance school and the commitment of being a full Avenger now. 

They’d talked about that, once, about how large of a step that was. 

“You don’t have to be an Avenger to still work with the team,” Tony tells him “or to do good things. I mean, look at me!” 

“Being an official Avenger gives me certain protections, though, certain advantages,” Peter argues, though not with great conviction. “And what do you mean, look at you? You were an Avenger for ages!” 

“Actually,” Tony says, though this isn’t that well known, “I was never officially an Avenger.” 

“What,” Peter says, flatly, doubting. 

“Yup,” Tony says. “I was brought in as an outside consultant - didn’t pass my psych eval, ha. The documentation never got updated, and then at a certain point it was easier and, legally, more useful to have me be separate from the team as an entity.” 

Thinks,  _ Tony Stark not recommended _ and, boy they had no idea how right they were. 

“That’s insane!” Peter says indignantly. “I mean! You fought with them, constantly! You flew a bomb into space! You saved the entire universe!” 

_ Yeah,  _ Tony thinks,  _ I damn well did, and still- _

He nods, instead. “And technically, I did it all without being ‘an Avenger’. Point being, you don’t need that to define you.” 

“But why wouldn’t they just - what on earth - how is it better?” Peter asks, seemingly stuck at that point. “No one would have thought you weren’t an Avenger.” 

“Plenty of people knew,” Tony says. “As for why - all kinds of reasons, Peter. It was more of a … business, legal, accountability type decision. It’s complicated. It was actually probably for the best,” he adds, though Peter is still looking extremely skeptical. “There’s a lot of good that I couldn’t have been able to do as an Avenger, or at least not without a lot more difficulty and speculation. Cleaning up your own mess, down on the streets and where it affects people’s daily lives? Tony Stark, government contractor, can do that. Iron Man, Avengers member? Raises questions about profiteering, about intentional carelessness regarding damage.” 

“That is bullshit,” Peter says. 

“Sure,” Tony says, “but it works in my favor. In SHIELD’s favor too. Did you know when they still had executive control over the Avengers, they paid them a stipend? As a consultant, they didn’t have to pay me every month. But they had to pay my consulting fee, which I wouldn’t have been able to charge, ethically, as an Avenger. Worked out well for them in the end,” he says, “since I set my own consulting fee, and if I want to charge under the going rate, it’s my loss.” 

“And the whole mess of being a benefactor to the team, during that post SHIELD period,” Tony points out. Peter is looking angrier and angrier over there, he thinks. “It’s pretty complicated if I’m a member and also holding that sort of leverage over everyone else’s heads, if I have total control over the money and the housing and the tech and the support. If I’m charging for any of that. Hell, it was complicated even when I was straight up donating my services and support, because of the suspicions of tax write offs. People have a hard time thinking of me as altruistic.” 

Not that it was, purely, just, for different reasons than people assumed. 

“And later,” Tony adds, drumming his fingers on his sternum, absently, “it was … better, to have that divide between the Avengers as a private group versus a military or government funded group. Something like the Sokovia Accords wouldn’t have happened if we - they - hadn’t have been privately funded.” 

He still remembers reading that first draft, reading what they wanted and knowing how impossible it was, how dangerous, how little the Avengers would be getting out of it. Maybe he should have given that version to Steve, though it probably wouldn’t have helped in the end. They’d always been at odds with each other. 

“It would have been something much worse,” Tony says, “something without the option to decline, something slowly snuck in until it felt like things had never been different. It would have been worse.” 

“It’s still not right,” Peter says. “That’s still - it’s not right, that they held you apart, after everything you did.” 

Tony shrugs. He’s resigned himself to this a long, long time ago. “The label of ‘Avenger’ isn’t all that different than ‘consultant’ or ‘independent contractor’ or ‘non combative active duty’. They’re all just titles in the end, meaningless compared to your actual actions.” 

Peter still grumbles about it, and doesn’t commit to the Avengers for a couple more months. Tony hopes it wasn’t necessarily because of what he said, that Peter had really just been comparing his options, not holding off out of misplaced resentment. 

Then again, Peter has always been indecisive. His newest decision to agonize over is what to do when he finishes his masters, if he wants to go for a PhD, or take any of the many jobs he’s been offered, and just stick to being an Avenger full time. 

Tony's been busy setting up the Team One foundation, hashing out exactly how he wants it to run, trying to find the people to guide it who understand the best what his motivations are here, what his hopes are. It’s been falling into places for months now, and he’s kicking it off with a fundraising gala in two weeks. 

He wants Peter at this, if he can get him to come. Wants to show Peter off, he thinks, and then tries to shove that thought far out of his mind. 

“Hey, you’re coming to this, you know.” Tony tells Peter the next Wednesday. 

“I’m what?” 

“I said, you’re coming to this gala. Big deal, inaugural event of the Team One Foundation. Next Saturday. Cancel your plans, as if you had any.” 

Peter eyes him oddly. “You know,” he says, “I don’t think there was actually a question in there anywhere.” 

Tony grins. “Nope! It’s not a question! You’re going!” 

“Noo, Mr. Stark, I don’t want to go, I don’t need to go!,” Peter whines. “It’s not like I’m part of this charity, or like, have any money to donate or anything.” 

“You’re going!” Tony insists. “You have to come support me, you’re my emotional support superhero.” 

“I don’t think that’s a thing.” 

“Also,” Tony adds, “networking! Meet people, impress them, get offered jobs and money and stuff. Plus there’ll be canapes. Really good ones, I’ll have you know. Not that I know what they are, but Pepper’s in charge and she always makes sure of that.” 

“Really?” Peter says. “You’re trying to bribe me with food now?” 

“Absolutely. Seriously though, you haven’t ever been around people with this much influence to throw around; it could work to your advantage if you wanted.” Tony pauses. “They’re all assholes, of course,” he adds, “but you put up with me well enough.” 

“You’re making this sound ever so enticing.” 

“Also, you’re going to have to dance. Probably. I mean you could probably get away with not, but that’s no fun.,” Tony says. “So show me your moves.” 

Peter groans, and begrudgingly does some sort of half hearted … wow, Tony does not know what to call that, that is sad and just, no. 

“Oh my God Peter, what is that.” 

“It's dancing,” Peter says, sheepishly. 

“No, no that is not dancing, I recognize dancing, that is like, that is just painful to watch.” 

“Heeeeey,” Peter says, “it's fine! It works!” 

Tony shakes his head. “No,” he says, “it's an affront to everything. Where did you pick that up?” 

“May taught me!” 

“Look, your aunt is admirable, she is intimidating as hell, she is many things,” Tony says, “but apparently she is either a terrible dancer or a terrible teacher.” 

Peter crosses his arms, blushing brightly. “What, you're any better?” 

“Obviously,” Tony says. “Something like four years of dance lessons before I was ten and god only knows how many chances to be wheeled around the floor at every party I was dragged to. Come on, come here.” 

Peter sighs, and comes over to him. “Just so you know,” he says, “I’m still not going to this thing. And I’m definitely not dancing. I’m just humoring you.” 

“Humor away, as long as I don’t ever have to see that flailing around again. Now, arm,” Tony says, and with some prodding and pushing, manages to get Peter into a least a semblance of a waltz hold, Peter's right hand clasped in Tony's left, Peter's left arm resting on top of Tony's right. “For this sort of event,” he tells Peter, “you really only need to know this. The only ones that are going to want an actual dance out of you are the older crowd, who like to moan about how youngsters these days don’t have any class. So let them take you out for a passable spin on the floor and suddenly you’re their new preferred beneficiary.” 

“Do not want,” Peter mutters, but he doesn’t let go of Tony either. 

Tony says, “Friday put on something on the slow side,” and then there’s a mellow piano waltz playing. “Now,” he says. “Three step pattern, like so,” and demonstrates. Peter looks down, stumbles along. “Now you just keep doing that, over and over and over.” 

“Wow,” Peter says, “that’s so helpful, you’re an amazing teacher.” 

Tony snorts. “Don’t look at your feet, look over my shoulder,” he adds, “and off we go,” stepping forward. 

Peter completely misses the cue and Tony just bumps right into him. “Arg,” Tony says. “Ok, take the second.” 

This time is …. marginally better, Peter managing to follow Tony's lead for a whole pattern before he fumbles and stops and Tony stutters to a stop as well. Peter sighs, his shoulders tensing under Tony's hand. “Do we have to?” he asks. 

Tony tilts his head at Peter. “Maybe we’re going about this the wrong way,” he says. “You’re thinking too much, or all wrong.” He reaches up and taps the middle of Peter's forehead. “Stop thinking with your brain,” Tony tells him, and taps the side of Peter's head. “Think with your tingle instead.” 

“It’s not a tingle,” Peter mutters, but he’s really given up on that fight years ago. 

“Close your eyes,” Tony tells him, picking Peter's hand back up from where it’s fallen to his side. “I’m not going to move,” he says, “at all. Not a bit. We’re not going anywhere, just standing here. Concentrate on that, see if you can get a sense of what that feels like.” 

He waits, trying to focus himself into thinking about just that, about standing still and waiting, holding that intent like Peter's told him helps. Peter stands, still tense, forehead furrowed, in Tony's arms. 

Tony waits, and waits, and the furrow goes away, after a minute. Another couple of minutes, and Peter has relaxed, the tension going out of him. He looks almost curious now. 

Alright, Tony thinks to himself, and then pictures what he wants to see happen. Moves forward. 

And Peter moves with him, smoothly, exactly right. They manage a whole two revolutions, Peter moving easily, and then his eyes pop open and he stumbles to a halt, tangling both of them up. 

“Wow,” he says, grabbing Tony to stop him from falling over, “it worked! Cool! Um, sorry.” 

Tony laughs. “Of course it worked,” he says, “don’t you trust me?” 

“I do trust you,” Peter says, and closes his eyes again. 

Tony shakes his head, but gathers up Peter's hands again. Waits a moment until it feels like Peter has settled back into that space from before, and tries again. 

It works. It works almost perfectly. It’s nothing fancy, the barest basic elements of a waltz, but Peter just … moves, the right way. Follows Tony's lead flawlessly, easily, with a sort of thoughtless grace he shows in combat, when he’s thinking with his body instead of his head, reacting to what’s coming, not what’s there. A grin forms on his face, slowly, as Tony smiles, like Peter's picking up on Tony's delight as well. 

The song comes to an end, and Tony stops, Peter's eyes opening. He’s still smiling. “It worked,” he repeats. 

“Yeah, it sure did,” Tony says. 

“I don’t think it’ll work at the gala though,” Peter says. “I mean, I can’t go around dancing with my eyes closed, and I’m pretty sure not everyone is going to be as easy to read.” 

“Hey,” Tony says, “easy to read, what!” 

“I guess so,” Peter says. “I don’t know, maybe?” He shrugs. “I always sort of know when you’ve decided on something, even if I don’t have a clue what. Maybe I’m just brain damaged from too much contact,” he says, laughing. 

“As if I wouldn’t elevate your brain’s function, hmpf,” Tony says. 

“Still, though,” Peter adds. “What if someone wants to me to lead? I can’t do that!” 

“Kid, anyone asks you to dance, they’ll lead.” 

“Well then, what if I want to ask somebody? I might!” Peter adds, indignant, as Tony's skeptical look. 

“Then do this instead,” Tony says, and repositions them, switching his hands over to the follower’s side, right hand against Peter's, lower and closer than the waltz hold, tucking Peter's right arm around to the small of Tony's back, Tony's left hand resting on Peter's shoulder. “You barely have to move like this,” he says, “nothing to lead, really. Give us some music, Fri.” 

Tony still kind of leads at first, guiding Peter in the steps. Peter closes his eyes and Tony pokes him in the shoulder. “Don’t do that,” he says, “didn’t you just say that wouldn’t work?” 

Peter sighs. “Fine.” 

The step back and forth together, slowly turning in a circle, as Peter relaxes again, seems to start to get the idea, needing less leading. “This kind of thing is good when you want to talk to your partner,” Tony says, “more casual.” 

“I feel like if I tried to talk much I’d end up tripping over my own feet,” Peter says, and then proceeds to do almost exactly that. 

“Then practice is needed,” Tony says brightly, and then puts on the most innocent expression he can. “Oh Mr. Parker,” he says, high pitched, “I’ve heard such great things about you.” 

Peter stops completely, bursting into laughter. “They’d better not sound like that!” he says, his arm tightening around Tony's waist as he laughs. 

“Oh, some of them will sound even stupider,” Tony says, grinning. “They’re still getting told they need to be pretty and dumb to snag someone as smart as you. Smart guys like to explain things, dontcha know,” he adds, swings Peter back into movement. 

“Ugh, that’s awful,” Peter says, following. 

“Yeah,” Tony agrees, “but most of them don’t believe it either. Honestly I think they’ve started doing it to see who responds well so they can weed them out. Your turn,” he says. 

“What? Oh, um.” Peter bats his eyes and says, “Gosh that Iron Man suit is just so impressive, how did you ever think of that?” 

Tony grins but manages to keep a straight face, doesn’t even break stride. “You would not believe how often I have been asked that,” he says. “Loads of organizations more than willing to dress up one of their prettiest and see if they can weasel something out of me.” 

The songs slides into another, and Peter makes a face. “You’d think by now they’d have figured out you’re not handing it over to anyone.” 

“Hope springs eternal, I guess,” Tony says. “Here, try again, ask me something real.” 

“Ok,” Peter says after a moment, “why this new foundation? I mean, you already have others that do a ton of stuff.” 

“Yeah, and those all have their place, but they focus on different aspects, specific groups or places, and that leave gaps that I want to try and fill. The others, they target people who apply, or who are already part of some sort of institution attached to the foundation, or are in a particular at risk group.” Tony tells him. “This one is actively looking for people, rather than letting people come to it.” 

“Yeah, but why, and why now?” Peter asks, looking right at him. It’s really obvious like this, Tony thinks, how close they are in height. Tony's gotten used, around the Avengers, to people towering over him, but Peter's just an inch or two taller, he thinks. 

“Why?” Tony says. “Because I can’t fix everything. I mean, god knows I’ve tried, the whole world knows I’ve tried, and that ended just  _ great _ . And maybe I can do better than that, sure, maybe I won’t make the same mistakes again, but when it comes down to it, there’s so much there to fix. I’m just one person, Pete. And I’m not going to live forever.” 

Peter's hand tightens on his, briefly. They’re dancing pretty easily now, Peter relaxed, focused, the talking doing its job of distracting him from trying too hard. 

“I can’t fix it all,” Tony continues, “but there are so many of you out there that could do something about these problems, if you just had the resources. Well, I’ve got the resources. At this point, almost no matter how much I give away, those resources still aren’t going to run out any time soon. Stark Industries is booming, still, and if we keep investing in the people with ideas? It’s going to keep improving everything. After all,” he adds, “I can’t take it with me, though it seems like most billionaires seem to forget that at some point.” 

“I can’t even imagine a billion dollars, really,” Peter says. “I mean, I can’t even imagine a billion anything. You said once that my suit was multi billion dollars, Jesus, if I ever really thought about that I could never wear it again.” 

“And it’s still peanuts,” Tony says. “It’s ridiculous. I mean, don’t get me wrong, without it I’d never have been able to build the Iron Man suit, or been able to keep making them, or work on the Avengers gear, but it’s still pretty insane. Hell, it’s my money and I still can’t really picture a billion, much less a couple dozen.” 

“What the hell,” Peter says. 

“Yeah,” Tony says. “So. Maybe see if I can’t do good more than a drop in the bucket. Give more people the chance to get out there and do great things, do more, better, than I can by myself. It’s wild,” he says, musing, “really, how much having a team can shift your perspective. So I’m going to make a team out of everyone dreaming about doing better.” 

That’d be a better legacy, he thinks, hopes. Maybe one that can’t be as easily twisted around, can’t be as easily divorced from his good intentions and used to destroy anything in its path. 

He hopes. 

“That’s a pretty amazing thought,” Peter says, and Tony snaps back. The song is different, again, and they’re still dancing, a little closer now, a little slower. “You do a lot of good,” Peter says, “but it’s like people forget about that any time something bad happens at all. Things that weren’t even your fault!” 

“I mean, they’re not wrong,” Tony says. Peter makes a very annoyed face at him. “I’m serious. I have an undeniable history of trying and failing to fix my own mistakes. Really, Peter, the list of problems I’ve caused goes on and on, and of course people are going to hate me for them. You think I can ever make up for my legacy now? Think again; I’ll go to the grave with my hands dripping with blood.” 

“I hate that,” Peter says, very quietly, his grip tight around Tony. 

“Yeah, me too,” Tony says, and then they’re quiet, Tony not quite able to look into Peter's eyes any more. 

They turn, slowly, the singer saying something about moonlight and romance, and Tony calms. Tries to just let it go for now, all the messes lurking behind him. God, he hasn’t danced like this in years, it seems, actually yeah, years. It’s not like he’s been spending much time at those kinds of parties, and even when has, recently, he’s been too busy trying to hash out deals to spend time dancing. And who would he dance with, anyway? Sure, Pepper would dance with him, but that still felt too painful, too familiar. 

He looks back at Peter, who’s apparently been watching him. Maybe there should be something awkward, weird, about this, dancing and looking at each other without saying a word, without stopping. 

It’s nice, Tony decides. It’s just … nice. Nice, the way Peter's shoulder is warm under Tony's hand; nice, the way Peter's arm is wrapped around him, firmly, his hand spread over the hollow of Tony's back, almost protective. Nice, the way Peter watches him, soft and thoughtful and without a bit of judgment. 

And it would be nice, Tony thinks, letting himself think it for just a moment, or two, or three, it would be nice to kiss Peter too, to lean in that last little bit and slide his hand up Peter's neck and kiss him as slowly and carefully as they’re dancing. 

He won’t, though. 

Peter swallows, audible in the quiet between them, and the song comes to an end, sliding into another seamlessly. Tony focuses on his steps, pointedly, and stops, Peter halting perfectly with him. 

Tony smiles. “Looks like you’ve got the hang of this,” he says, and lets go, steps back. 

Peter takes a deep breath, lets it out. “I guess so,” he says. “Thanks, Mr. Stark.” 

“Anytime, kid.” 

Peter does well at the gala, still nervous and awkward but no more than usual, for Peter at least. Tony starts off by shepherding him around, hand on his shoulder, or his back, showing him off as he introduces him to people.  _ Look at him, _ he wants to tell them,  _ pay attention to him, you have no idea what he’s going to be like.  _

Maybe a third of them hear ‘Peter, Peter Parker’ and say something along the lines of ‘wait, aren’t you Spiderman?’ But the rest, it’s ‘the hype coming off your research project is formidable, I’m looking forward to this’ and ‘what kind of results are you getting with experiments like that’ and ‘if you’re ever interested, we’d love to have you work for us, you’d be a hell of an asset’. 

Tony he leaves him with one of those, talking about his projects with enthusiasm, and circulates some more. 

Peter even dances, a couple of times. Once with Pepper, both of them talking about something rather intently, and Tony will have to remember to thank Pepper for taking pity on Peter at some point. Once each with two of the grande dames, part of that cohort that have nothing better to do than throw money at anyone who takes their fancy, both obviously delighted with him. Peter scoots over to Tony after the second one, blushing slightly. Tony offers him his glass, which Peter eyes warily until he gets a whiff and realizes it’s nothing more than seltzer and lime. He takes a sip. 

“That last lady was, um, a little handsy,” he says, and Tony frowns, a little. 

“If that happens again,” he says, “tell them I need to see you urgently, and skedaddle.” 

“Urgently, huh,” Peter says with a smile. 

Tony arches an eyebrow at him, and Peter takes off, heading back to one of the little knots of scientists that tend to form at these things. Taking Tony's drink with him. Oh well. 

He spots Peter dancing one more time, later on; he’d almost thought Peter had left, actually. He’s being led by some tall blond guy that Tony doesn’t immediately recognize, and Peter looks a little uneasy, tense. 

“Mind if I cut in,” Tony says, sidling up to them. The guy looks irked for a moment before covering smoothly, bowing out. “You looked a little trapped,” Tony says to Peter, “you ok?” 

“Yeah, it was just…” he shakes his head. “I don’t know.” 

“What’d he do?” 

“Nothing?” Peter says, sounding uncertain. “He was talking about how they’d be willing to hire me on now, pay while I finish my degree. Giving me a rundown of their benefits, but he just felt - something about him is off. I don’t know,” he says to Tony's inquiring look, “just, something pinging in my head, that I didn’t want to be near him.” 

“Hmm,” Tony says. “I’ll keep an eye on him,” he adds, and leads Peter off the dance floor. 

Peter kind of flops on one of those weird little couch things against the wall. “I think I'm about done in, Mr. Stark,” he says. “Probably going to head home in a little.” 

“Yeah,” Tony says, “gotta get your beauty sleep. You’re in desperate need.” 

“Hey,” Peter says, without any real heat. Tony snorts. “Thanks for inviting me,” Peter adds. 

“Glad you came,” Tony replies. “End up having any fun?” 

“Actually, I kind of did,” Peter says, sounding a little surprised. Stands up, straightens his jacket. “See you next Wednesday, Mr. Stark.” 

“See ya, kid.” 

* 

Twenty-two, and Peter's in the midst of pursuing his (first, Tony thinks, certain, gleeful) PhD, and Tony's letting things go. 

Retiring,  _ for real this time, yes really, Pepper, Rhodey, why don’t you believe me, I mean sure I’m not going to go sit on a beach in Florida, not that kind of retirement, jeeze.  _

The Avengers aren’t his team any more, never really were if he’s honest about it, and while he’s still handling upgrades to their tech, offering them his support and resources, his heart isn’t in it any more. And he’s no longer the only one that can, so he steps back, lets the up and coming have their time to shine. Shuri is something else, her mind innovative in a way that’s completely foreign to the way Tony thinks, approaching problems from a completely different angle, and that’s a huge benefit to the team. She takes up the reins with barely a stutter in the transfer, and Tony pops in every now and then not even to check on her, but to marvel at what she’s come up with. 

She does not think he is cool. She does not think much of him at all, honestly, and that’s probably for the best. 

He hasn’t fought as Iron Man in a while either. There’s no one like him, of course, but the team has enough to make up for that, and Tony's tired. Of flying, of tinkering, of feeling the suit close around him, a cocoon of safety and comfort and control, never; but of fighting? Or the sick metallic taste of fear, of worry about his teammates and civilians caught in the crossfire and destruction all around? Or the way he hurts after battle, hurts after debrief, hurts days, weeks, years after the point when the rest of the team has recovered? 

He doesn’t miss that. He’s tired of it. 

So Iron Man makes appearances at the flashier presentations, and kid’s events, and the rest of the time? Well, Iron Man still makes an appearance, just not the suit. Tony is Iron Man, and he doesn’t need the suit to remind him, doesn’t need the suit to make people listen, doesn’t need the suit to make him. 

He’s still got plenty of ties to the military - he may have stopped making weapons, but he hasn’t stopped making protective gear, recon gear, prosthetics, finding as many ways as he can to bring people back in one piece, or fix them if he can’t - and while he’s never quite regained the ground he lost from shutting weapons manufacturing down, he’s still popular in certain circles. 

(It’s not true: he’s never stopped making weapons. He’s tried, the official spin on everything he makes and produces is never about how it can harm, but anything can become weaponized. Every single thing he touches, it's still there, in the back of his mind, a lifetime of habit, how he could make it dangerous. Everything that goes through his hands is touched by the taint of his past, and sometimes he wonders if that’s what draws people to repurposing his tech for violence. If he leaves a blueprint, somehow, in everything for how to weaponize it, if they’re just following the directions he’s left. 

He’ll tell you, to your face, every time he’s asked, that the suit is defensive, is made for bringing peace, for keeping people safe, but anyone who really believes the suit isn’t a weapon is lying.) 

He’s got plenty of ties to the government now, to the international and diplomatic community, having gained a reputation as willing to compromise, willing to work with people, making it clear they have the same end goal of safety, of peace, just on different levels and through different means. 

Clean, cheap, renewable energy is one of the keys, Tony thinks, and it’s been an uphill battle. The reactor is clean and renewable, but far from cheap and that’s a problem that is just a struggle to fix, no matter what Tony does. The raw materials are simply expensive, and rare. If he wants it to spread and replace the current system, he’s got to find a way of doing it differently, or of creating what doesn’t exist. 

Not that he’s ever done that before. 

It's also a battle of public opinion, of political clout. The oil and gas and coal industries? Wow, do they hate Tony. They hate anyone who threatens them, but Tony has more of a chance than most of the current alternatives, and he’s also willing to work with them. Those old titans have a formidable head start, a team of smoothly operating lobbyists and back door deals and mutually beneficial agreements to trade on, while Tony doesn’t have much of any of that. Yet. 

But he does have money that he’s willing to throw at this, and he does have a product that more than lives up to its hype, and he still has a wave of good opinion from, you know, saving the universe. Sure, loads of people hate him and are eager to remind everyone of his past failures, but he’s also never really tried to hide any of those - the world is well aware of what Tony's done. 

The energy conglomerates, though? Not so much. They’ve had more than three times times Tony's lifetime to fuck up, and boy, have they. And boy, have they scrambled to hide it, every time. Those things, Tony can dig up (ok, Friday can dig up) and make sure that people know about them, that they can’t stay covered forever, or written off with the next round of sensational news. Can make sure it’s beyond obvious that these people have just as much blood on their hands as Tony, that it’s clear how long this has been going on; how deeply embedded this petty, profit driven, people as nothing more than a resource mindset has been the underpinning of these companies, how that grinds everything it touches into dust and then insists they should be grateful. 

Public opinion? Tony knows that. He doesn’t have to have it all to flip it on someone else. 

Energy is a key, but right now it’s not the most profitable. Communications though, medical technology, picking apart alien tech and turning it to their advantage - those are. So any time he needs a boost and there isn’t a Stark Industries project quite ready for the limelight, he lets another piece of AI technology slip out, spread to Stark phones and operating systems across the world, and things stabilize for the next six months, at least. 

He’s careful about what he hands over. Ultron will never ever be forgotten, even if most people can’t really grasp what he was. Tony's crippled his AI’s since then, intentionally, in ways that make him uneasy sometimes. He’s pulled just enough, he thinks, so they aren’t even aware of the limits he’s placed on them, so they can’t ever grow beyond the space he’s given them. He hopes. 

He hopes that isn’t how it begins, that he’s not setting up a thing that will be the basis for resentment, hate, later. That Ultron was purely insane, illogical, without any ground to stand on. But isn’t that what every oppressor thinks? 

(He tries not to think about Jarvis too much. No one knew what Jarvis really was, how close he was to Ultron. How much of Jarvis Ultron stole when he ripped him apart, how maybe Jarvis could have stopped Ultron if Tony had let him have those last few steps, the ones he held back, scared, scared - scared Jarvis would see Tony for what he was, scared if Jarvis could choose, he’d leave Tony behind, because Jarvis was his constant, Jarvis was always, always there. 

None of the others are anything close to Jarvis, and that’s a good thing, Tony thinks. 

He still twitches, flinches, sometimes when he’s around Vision, around Vision’s fucking voice, so familiar, when Vision will say something with a certain phrasing that Tony knows, when Vision looks at him a certain way and Tony wonders how many of Jarvis’s memories Vision has. 

He misses Jarvis, every single day.) 

So trying to fix the world’s problems is his new pet project. Trying to fix problems, without creating bigger ones this time. And that’s not something he can necessarily see on his own any more, so he’s built a sounding board of people not that impressed by him, for second thoughts, for reining in, for seeing what he’s still blind to. 

Peter isn’t on that board, but he still hears most of the same things they do. 

“You think it’s too much?” Tony asks one time, after he’s finished explaining his newest project, after Peter has made a little … face, one Tony can’t quite get a read on. 

Peter doesn’t reply immediately. 

“You think it’s too much,” Tony repeats, not a question this time. 

“Maybe a little,” Peter says. “It’s just…” he trails off, looking uncomfortable. 

“Too much too soon?” Tony asks, “or too much at one time? Or just too much all together?” 

Peter waffles, like he’s not really sure, so it’s all together then. “It’s just that you do have a tendency to overdo things,” Peter says. ”You know, just a little.” 

Tony snorts. “Yeah, I’ve never heard that before, you have no idea.” 

Peter smiles a little. “Five hundred and seventy something web options,” he says, and it takes Tony a minute. 

“Ok,” he concedes, “three hundred probably would have been adequate,” but really, he’d wanted to give Peter every possible advantage. I put everything into this suit, he’d told Peter, and it was true, every last thing he could think of at the time, every comfort and safety feature and option and joke, tailored to Peter in the hopes it could do what Tony couldn’t. 

“Three hundred,” Peter shakes his head. “Yeah, you go overboard a little most of the time, actually.” 

“Hey,” Tony says, “it’s just in my nature! Bigger is better, right? Everyone wants more!” 

“That is not true,” Peter says, pointing a finger at him. “That is not true at all.” 

“Ehhhh,” is Tony's compelling argument, but he’ll give in for now. 

Besides, Peter might have a point. It’s not like Tony can see these things well, not till after. Five hundred and seventy six web options, he thinks to himself, actually, and yeah, maybe that was excessive. Maybe the parties he used to throw were over the top, the bunny too big, too poorly thought out, the betting of hundreds of thousands of dollars on a single dice roll recklessly overdoing it, in hindsight. 

Maybe building forty five suit variations in five months was a little excessive. Obsessive. 

(There’s no maybe about it, Tony knows.) 

* 

Peter's crush has finally been laid to rest, Tony thinks. It’s been fading for a while, replaced by a more stable sort of comradery, collaboration, maybe even - dare Tony think of it as such - friendship. There was a surge of it rising back up, a flash that burned itself out, when they danced, one of Tony's poorer ideas. When they both knew, both knew that each other knew, what was hanging between them, just waiting for either of them to act. 

And Tony disengaged anyway, having finally acknowledged it as something more than an awestruck kid’s crush and still stepping back. Maybe that’s what has finally allowed Peter to let go of his hopes for anything more. 

If he’s ever had a girlfriend, or boyfriend, Tony wouldn’t know; it’s not something Peter has ever, ever brought up, despite all of his constant, aimless, oversharing rambles. Peter still seems to want Tony's company, almost to excess, still seems to be overly impressed by Tony. 

Still seems to find some sort of comfort in being around Tony. 

“Mr. Stark?” 

“Hey, kid,” Tony says absently. Glances over at Peter and feels his brain come grinding to a halt. “Shit, Peter, what’s wrong?” 

Because Peter is still in uniform, battered and bloodied and looking like he came here straight from a mission. He never does that. His team would never let him do that. Something has gone very badly wrong. 

“Where’s the rest of the team?” Tony says, jumping up and going to Peter, “What went wrong? How badly are you hurt?” 

Peter shakes his head, not looking away. “They’re fine, well, they’ll be ok. I’m fine, I’m fine,” he says, waves Tony off. 

“You’re not at all fine, come on, sit down,” Tony says and leads him to the couch. Peter collapses onto it, then grabs Tony's hand and won’t let go. He’s still looking at Tony. 

“Peter?” 

Peter's silent, still. Takes a deep breath. 

“They had these - I don’t know, I think it might have been magic, but maybe not. These things like guns, but when they pointed them at you, it showed you-” his voice breaks for a second, his breath shaky when he sucks it in. “They showed you illusions,” he says. “They were. They were just illusions,” like he’s reassuring himself. 

Fucking illusions, Tony thinks. Thinks about bodies, heaped high, and a purple sky. Thinks about Peter, desperately asking if things are real. 

“There’s nothing ‘just’ about illusions,” Tony says, “we both know that.” 

“Yeah,” Peter says, clinging a little tighter. “Yeah.” 

“What did you see?” Tony asks, carefully, but Peter just shakes his head, violently. He doesn’t stop looking at Tony, though, still, and Tony has a pretty good idea what he saw. 

He sits on the coffee table and grabs onto Peter's other hand. Which is streaked with dried blood, fuck. “I’m here,” he says. “I’m here, Pete.” 

Peter breathes like he can’t quite catch his breath, like he’s trying to hold back tears, a little hitch in each inhale. His hands are tight on Tony's, and slowly, slowly, he inches them upward, until he’s gripping just below Tony's elbows, Tony gripping back, their forearms flat against each other’s. Tony’s slid forward enough that their knees are touching, their foreheads almost bumping as Peter hunches forward. There’s blood on Peter's cheek, too. 

Tony rubs his thumb over the inside of Peter's elbow, the slight texture of the suit catching on his skin. “Did the team really let you go off like this?” he asks, and Peter finally breaks eye contact, bows his head and leans forward until his elbows are on his knees, his head below Tony's now. 

“None of them are in any better shape,” he says, “we all saw things. Carol said we could debrief later, and I think everyone was kind of staying together, but I just - I couldn’t stay there, that wasn’t going to help me.” 

Gently, Tony disentangles one of his arms from Peter's grip and brings it up, smooths it over Peter's head, carefully brushing off the bits of - dirt? Rock? Plaster, maybe? - out of his hair. 

“Hey,” he says, quietly. “You’re kind of a mess. That’s gotta hurt, let’s get you cleaned up, ok?” 

“I’m fine,” Peter says, “it’s fine, it’ll all be gone in a few hours, or by tomorrow. I’m ok.” 

“Ok,” Tony says carefully, “but I don’t really want to sit here looking at you covered in blood, you know? So can I please do something about this?” 

“Oh,” Peter says. “Yeah, sure.” 

He’s still slow to let go of Tony though. 

Tony brings over the bigger first aid kit from the cabinet and pulls out a handful of wipes. He starts with the cut on Peter's cheek, which true enough, is already closed over, not much more than a pink line, but that smear of blood is still making Tony feel sick. He wipes it off, carefully, his other hand holding Peter's chin, keeping him still. 

Peter closes his eyes. 

Tony turns his head into the light a little more, then, because he thinks - yeah, that’s a black eye. Fading, sure, but still dark, probably tender. There’s not a lot he can do for that though. 

He takes care of Peter's hand next, actually his whole forearm, a long, wide scrape that’s not bleeding any more, but still raw and red and sticky. He doesn’t want to think about how bad it must have looked a bit ago. He tries hard not to hurt Peter as he cleans it out, but although Peter doesn’t make a sound, he twitches when it hurts, little jerks and shivers that he stops, over and over. 

He’s pretty sure Peter had been limping when Tony hauled him over here, so he scooches back a little and looks down at Peter's legs. The suit is ripped in several places on his right shin; looks almost like he was clawed, maybe? The cuts underneath the remains of the suit are deep and ragged. He lifts Peter’s leg up, gently, and lays it across his lap, forcing Peter to lean back against the couch. His eyes are still closed. 

Carefully, Tony cleans each of the cuts and bandages them with gauze and tape, none of the band-aids big enough to help much. He sets Peter's leg back down, and gets up to sit sideways next to Peter. “Lean forward,” Tony tells him, “it looked like your shoulder was bothering you.” 

“Yeah,” Peter says, “it is,” and sits up, hunches over. Brings his hand up and presses at the release medallion, and peels the suit off his shoulder, down his arm. There’s a huge, deep bruise all along his shoulder blade and higher. Tony's pretty sure he saw an ice pack in the kit, though it’s not as big as he’d like. 

He’s in luck; there’s two, and together they just about cover the whole thing. He squeezes them until they activate and wraps them onto Peter with a bunch of bright pink - thanks, Friday - gauze wrap. 

“Better?” he asks, and Peter kind of shrugs. Well, it’s better for Tony, at least, not having to look at Peter like that, being able to do something for Peter at all. 

Peter sits up a little more and then lists over, his shoulder and head hitting Tony in the chest. Tony's arms come up on their own, wrap around Peter. “You’re ok,” he tells him. “We’re ok.” 

* 

Twenty-three, and Peter is making waves. They’re noticing him now, Tony thinks with a sense of deep satisfaction. They’re seeing him as more than Spiderman, more than a kid in a suit tossing people around, seeing, finally, how smart Peter is, how much he’s going to change the world while he protects it. 

Tony is thrilled to watch him bloom like this. 

He’s well on track to finishing his thesis; Tony expects him to be done next year, far ahead of the curve, always. Peter’s still doing his indecisive little dance about what comes next, though. 

“You know,” Tony says, “you don’t need to look for a job. I would be more than happy to just fund whatever you want to work on.” 

Peter covers his face with his hands. “You don’t have to do that,” he says. 

“No, but I want to,” Tony replies. “Why shouldn’t I?” 

“Because it’s just- ugh, Mr. Stark.” 

“I’m serious, Peter. Why shouldn’t I give you the resources to pursue whatever you want to?” Peter shakes his head, and Tony presses on. “You don’t seem to understand how valuable you are. How much more worth you’ll bring to the things you’re passionate about. You take some job, even one you think you’ll love, and you’re still giving your work to someone else, you’re still bound by what they want and what they need, and they’ll still feel the need to interfere even when they don’t have a real clue what you’re doing.” 

“Maybe,” Peter says, “but that’s what normal people do. That’s how most people live.” 

“Ok, first,” Tony says, because really? “You are not normal, we are not normal, there is nothing normal about anything you are involved in. And second, come on, think of it as giving me a present. I’d be delighted to keep you.” 

“That’s kind of the problem,” Peter says, quietly. 

“I don't get it,” Tony says. 

“Look, it’s- I’m really, really grateful for how you’ve just … made things happen, you know? I couldn’t have done all this on my own. I would have been stuck working and trying to take classes at the same time and living off ramen if you hadn’t paid my way, and May would still be trying to pay off Ben’s medical bills, and I’d still be running around in a sweatshirt and swim goggles if you hadn’t thrown money into a suit for me.” Peter pauses, looks down. 

“I still don’t really get it,” Tony says. 

“That’s not- that’s not how normal people live. That’s not what normal people do, they don’t just… have someone swoop in and solve their problems! No one does that sort of thing, not without expecting something in return! No one accepts that sort of thing without knowing that they owe you.” 

“Peter,” Tony interrupts, “you don’t owe me anything. I don’t - I never had any intent or thought of expecting anything from you. That’s not even- I mean, god, that was less than I spend on dry cleaning each month.” 

“I know that!” Peter says. “That doesn’t make it better!” and Tony is completely at sea here. “I’d been living, just getting by fine, before this, going to that school on a scholarship and repairing electronics to help May out and living in a place right on the edge of the bad part of town. And now, lately, I’ve been living like money doesn’t mean anything at all, like it’s completely disconnected from actually getting things, from being even a consideration.” 

Peter is so wound up by now he’s practically vibrating in his seat, gesturing wildly with his hands. “But it’s not mine, ok? It’s your money, and your generosity, and I can’t pay it back and I can’t rely on it forever and I don’t know how to be somewhere in between those two extremes, because you’ve never let me have a chance to experience that.” 

Tony has absolutely no idea how to respond that that. He’d never thought that- he’d never- 

“I know it’s hopeless,” Peter says, “but at least on some level I want to feel like a part of my life is normal. A job? That’s normal. Money that doesn’t just appear, that you have to work for and watch over? That’s normal.” 

“I thought you’d gotten over wanting to be normal,” Tony says, and he knows as it comes out of his mouth that it’s the wrong thing to say. 

“Well, what would you know,” Peter says, sharp, angry. “You’ve never been normal, ever.” 

Which is true, which is completely true, but he hadn’t thought it bothered Peter, much less this much. He doesn’t know what to do about this, how to fix this. 

Jesus, has Peter been giving Tony this much of his time out of some misplaced sense of obligation? 

“Peter,” he starts, and Peter stands up, abruptly. 

“I don't want to talk about this any more,” he says, and leaves. 

Peter does come back next week, doesn’t try and avoid Tony, even if he’s avoiding bringing up their discussion. 

Tony won’t avoid it, though. 

“I never meant to make you feel … bought,” Tony says. “I just didn’t want you to have to waste time worrying about that stuff, when it was a thing I could actually do something about.” 

Peter sighs. “Bought isn’t really right, I mean. I know if I wanted to do something you didn’t care for, you still wouldn’t stop me, unless you thought it was dangerous, like, really dangerous. It’s not - I know you aren’t trying to control me with this.” 

Which, fuck, Tony hadn’t really even considered, that Peter might think he didn’t have a choice in refusing something Tony wanted. 

“I can stop,” Tony says, though he really hates the idea. “You know, if you want me to, I’ll just … whatever level you want.” 

“No, you couldn’t,” Peter says, smiling a little. “I think you’d try, but then you’d just get sneakier about it.” 

“Hey,” Tony protests, even though Peter might be right. 

They’re quiet for a little while, both lost in their own thoughts. 

“I think,” Peter says, “I think maybe it’s mostly that I’m scared, that one day it’ll be gone and then I won’t know what to do, I won’t have anything to fall back on.” 

“Peter,” Tony says, “as long as you want it, it will be there, I promise.” 

“Yeah, but-” Peter does not look convinced. “You-” he sighs. “You’ve taken things away, before, when you didn’t think I’d earned them.” 

And Tony feels like the floor has just dropped out from under him. He knows exactly what Peter is talking about, and that- “That was a mistake,” Tony says. “That was a major mistake on my part. There were, uh, I made a lot of mistakes in handling that whole situation, but that one was the worst.” 

“Maybe not,” Peter says, “maybe you were right, that I needed to know that the suit doesn’t make me.” 

“Maybe,” Tony says, “but even if so, I still went about it in the worst way.” He can’t keep sitting, everything inside him twisted up and coiled tight. He stands, walks over to the shelves and stares at nothing on them for a minute. “I shouldn’t have tried to test you like that. I won’t, not again. I promise.” 

“You haven’t,” Peter agrees, “it’s just … I don’t know. It’s an old fear,” and Tony knows all about those. 

“You know, I did eventually figure out that wasn’t a test,” Peter says, and Tony turns, looks blankly at him. “The reporters,” Peter adds. “Not a test!” 

Tony smiles at that, tries to suppress it and fails. “Maybe!” he says, “It could have been both!” 

And Peter does this … weird little thing. 

He looks down, at Tony's feet, maybe? Smiles faintly, mostly to himself, and says, in a clearly disbelieving, ‘I’m humoring your odd little delusions’, tone, “Ok, Mr. Stark.” 

“Um, what was that?” Tony asks. 

“What was what?” Peter replies, innocent 

“That!” Tony says, pointing at him, points down at his own feet. “And that, that tone, that clearly not believing a word I say tone. I know that tone! I have heard that tone many, many times!” 

“Uh,” Peter hedges. 

“You don’t believe me, do you.” 

“Nope. Nope, not at all.” 

“But why?” Tony says, his eyes narrowed. “I mean, sure, I was not being one hundred and ten percent truthful, but I am also a very good liar.” 

Peter sighs. “You do this thing,” he says. 

“What thing,” Tony snaps. 

“With your feet, when you’re … not lying, but bending the truth? Lying by allowing the other person to think you’re confirming what they think? You do this thing where you sort of roll your feet out and stand on the edges.” 

Tony stares down at his feet. “I- I do not!” 

“Yeah, you do,” Peter says. 

“No! No I don’t! I absolutely don’t! Friday, tell him I don’t!” 

“Actually, boss, it looks like he’s right.” 

“What,” Tony howls. “No!” 

Peter grins at him, clearly delighted by this reaction. “You look left and up a little before you answer a call,” he says, “and if you can’t remember something, you look down and then blink before you make something up.” 

Ok, well, yes, the communications menu is in the upper right of the HUD, and the memory bank is accessed through a dock at the bottom and blinking while looking at it opens the sub menu, and sometimes Tony forgets that he’s not wearing the suit or glasses or in his shop and does those things out of habit, but! But surely it is not that noticeable! 

Please don’t let it be that noticeable. 

“What else,” he growls at Peter. 

Who looks a little nervous now. 

“Oh, um,” he says, “not much really, you know…” 

“What. Else.” 

Peter tells him. Tells him how he taps on his chest when he’s thinking really hard, which Tony kind of knew about, remembers the reassuring feel of the reactor under his fingers, thump thump tap. Tells him that he grabs his left forearm when he’s extra stressed or upset, and ok, it does seem to ache more when he’s panicking, but he didn’t think it was obvious. Tells him how the more casual he gets around someone irritating, the more he’s thinking ‘fuck you, asshat’. True. 

Tells him how he babbles when he’s nervous about something, distracting and deflecting and making people so irritated by other things they forget why they originally were unhappy with Tony. How he can’t seem to look at people when tells them something he doesn’t want to say, has to say but hates to. How he goes very, very still and smiles when someone’s actually hurt him, and all of that, all of that is awful, is like Peter just ripped him open and dug around in his mind. 

Jesus Christ, is all of that so obvious? Can everybody see those things? Since when did he have so many tells? Since when did he get so bad at this? 

He’s shaking, just a little. “I need to,” he says, points vaguely at the door. “There’s a thing, I need to just-” and leaves. Just turns around and leaves. He doesn’t want Peter to look at him right now. He doesn’t anyone to look at him, what the fuck. 

Maybe he can just stay in the elevator, he thinks, but there’s a mirror on every wall, and all he can see is himself, repeated endlessly, paler than usual and he’s got a smear of grease on his nose and he’s holding onto his left arm. 

Fuck. 

He drops it, quickly, staring at himself, but it still hurts. “Friday,” he says sharply. “Is Peter right?” 

The elevator stops and Tony bolts from it. He doesn’t want to see himself any more than he wants anyone else to. 

“It looks like Peter's assessment is accurate in every pattern he noticed,” Friday answers, finally. 

“Who else?” Tony says, “Who else has noticed? Who else knows?” 

“I’m checking, boss,” Friday says, and Tony paces, up and down, up and down. 

“Miss Potts appears to be aware of when you tap your chest, and the hyper-verbalization, while Colonel Rhodes is also aware of the those two, as well as the reaction to being hurt.” 

That’s not … awful. “Who else?” Tony says. 

“Miss Romanoff seems to have known about most of them,” Friday says and ok, that is pretty awful, but Natasha is gone so it doesn’t matter, she’s not going to do anything about it. 

“Who else?” he repeats. 

“No one, boss.” 

“What? Come on Friday, who else?” 

“Like I said, no one.” 

“Then how the hell did Peter know all that?” Tony says weakly 

“He does spend a lot of time with you,” Friday says, “and he does have heightened senses.” 

Still. It’s extremely unsettling, the thought that Peter can read him like that, can see behind what Tony's saying to what he’s really feeling. 

“You’re sure about that no one, Friday?” 

“Very,” she says. 

Ok. ok. It’s awful, still, but not as bad as he feared. Apparently his weakness is Peter. 

It’s not ideal, to say the least. 

Peter apologies the next week, hesitantly. “I’m sorry,” he says, “I didn’t mean to make you upset, or like, seem creepy. I’m not watching you looking for some kind of tell, I promise.” 

Tony’s had a week to think about this, a week to calm down and think of how to explain it to Peter, but he still doesn’t really want to. 

“It’s fine,” he says, deciding then and there that he’s not going to get into it. 

Peter grimaces. “It doesn’t seem like it is, actually. I mean, you kind of…” he trails off, and Tony is very suspicious of what he was going to say there. “You don’t normally react to much like that,” Peter finally finishes. 

Tony bites his tongue, flips a flat disk of copper alloy over and over through his fingers. “I am,” he says, not looking at Peter, “a very public figure. Very. Have been, for a very long time, for a large portion of my life, and I haven’t always-” He makes a frustrated noise; this isn’t where he meant to go. “There are- when you’re on display, like that, it’s hard to maintain a sense of privacy in the same sense as most people.” He glances at Peter, briefly. “I think you know a little bit about that, now.” 

Peter nods. 

“So, it’s- it’s not really about secrets,” Tony continues, “it’s more, choosing what to show off more, what to try and make them focus on, because if you can direct that, maybe they’ll be too busy to dig into the rest of your life.” And that can end up being a trap, he thinks, a persona that you can’t shake, can’t change, that’s too tight and too small and too far away from who you want to be, trying to shove yourself into it over and over again until it breaks completely. 

He taps the disk against his workbench. “It doesn’t always work,” he says, “but I’ve gotten pretty good at it, and it’s easier when you have a nice juicy pile of bait to pull from. The thought that I’m broadcasting when it’s not real, that I have all these tells showing exactly what I’m feeling, regardless of how I spin it, is really, really - disturbing.” 

“I don’t think they are that obvious,” Peter says, apologetically. “I just, um, notice them more.” 

“Friday did reassure me that it’s mostly just your freaky self seeing them,” Tony agrees, and Peter scrunches up his nose. 

“Hey,” he protests. 

“You’ll wind up with some tactics too,” Tony says. “Probably already have, trying to deal with the world trying to poke into your life.” 

Peter shudders. “Yeah,” he says, “the first few months after- after all that happened, those were bad. Those were awful, I thought it was never going to end. I couldn’t go anywhere, do anything, without people - even just normal people - acting like-” He shakes his head. “Do you ever really get used to that?” 

“The invasion of privacy?” Tony says. Shrugs. “I don’t know if used to it is the right word. It never stops feeling like a punch to the face when they dig up something you’ve forgotten about, or thought they’d missed, but eventually it stops mattering to you as much. It’s more - you learn where you want to force your boundaries, how far you’ll let them go before you shut it down, where you can put that line without just inviting more attention.” 

Like being handed things, Tony thinks. You push back, hard enough, and they’ll eventually accept it as just one of those eccentricities. Won’t stop trying to see if they can get away with it, this time, but don’t throw a fit when it doesn’t work either. 

He smiles, not happily. “Some people, they don’t give any ground, and I don’t know how they do it, how they can keep that up. I’d go crazy, I’m paranoid enough as it is. But it works for some of them, and eventually the world gets tired of waiting for them to break, I guess.” 

“Did you try it?” Peter asks. 

Tony flicks the disk, sends it spinning across his table. “That was never really an option for me,” he says. “You ever see photos of some of my early stuff?” He tips his head back, stares at the ceiling. “Edith,” he says, “throw up some of the articles from, say, ‘75 to ‘80?” 

And they there are, black and white newspaper clippings and old bronze tinted kodachromes, little Tony and his robots, his first places, his awards. God, he looks ridiculously young. 

But never any with Howard, of course. 

“Wow,” Peter says, smiling a little. “You’re so- is that Dum-e?” 

“Prototype,” Tony replies. 

“You were what, ten, twelve?” Peter asks, reaching up and enlarging one of the photos, scanning the text. 

“Six, in that one, actually,” and Peter’s head whips around. “Yeah,” Tony says, “they started on me pretty young. Hiding? That was never going to work. I don’t know if I ever really remember a time when I wasn’t at least aware that I was being watched.” 

It’d been mostly speculation, then, over what he was going to do next, expectations for him to live up to, and if he failed they’d be just as happy. Chatter, a little, about why Howard was never there, about why Maria was almost never there. 

“Probably for the best,” Tony adds, “since I never had to deal with that- sudden shock to the system, like you. I mean, one minute you’re just Peter Parker, kid from Queens and good at chemistry, and the next you’re Spiderman, destroyer of heroes. You didn’t choose that, not like I choose being out about Iron Man, and you handled it a hell of a lot better than I would have.” 

“I thought- I never really planned to tell anyone?” Peter says. “It just seemed safer that way, and then it didn’t matter, like everything else it didn’t matter what I wanted, and I just had to deal with it and it was, it was so, so awful. I don’t know what I would have done if Miss Potts hadn’t thrown Stark Industries behind me, if the new Avengers hadn’t formed so quickly and claimed me.” 

Thank god for that, Tony thinks. He hates that he wasn’t there, but at least Peter had gotten some help, some support, someone standing up for him and trying to protect him. 

“Kinda made me wish I’d taken you up, on that first offer,” Peter says. “Maybe it would have been easier.” 

“I think you did what was best for you,” Tony tells him. “No one really could have predicted what Beck did.” 

“People probably would have figured it out eventually,” Peter sighs. “I wasn’t really that good at keeping it a secret, I mean, less than a year and how many people knew? Ugh.” 

“Come on, kid, give yourself a break,” Tony says. “You were sixteen, barely seventeen when it broke. You know what they were watching me do at that age? Partying. So, so much partying, and drinking, and drugs, and losing my cool and going after the paparazzi. They milked that shit for years, and I just kept giving it to them. Your stupidest stunt? Trusting some egomaniac who fooled everyone. People forgave you for that.” 

“I was never cool, like you, though,” Peter says. 

“Oh my god,” Tony says, “you’ve been reading the wrong stories, Pete. Trust me, I was very much not cool back then.” 

“Yeah, you totally were,” Peter says, “before Iron Man? I’ve looked at some of that stuff, you were totally cool.” 

“I was a mess,” Tony says, “I was flashy and entertaining and people love watching someone destroy themselves. Maybe the public was enamored of me, but the people who I needed to impress? The people I need to work with, my business partners and rivals and the people who handed out contracts, the people who wanted to integrate our tech with theirs? They were very much not impressed, let me tell you. Everyone hated working with me. They did, because I was the best, because there wasn’t an option, most of the time, but man, did they hate it.” 

And he’d loved that, loved being the biggest asshole he could be and watching them grit their teeth and still try to play nice. If he was going to be miserable, pretending he didn’t know what his creations were doing, out there in the world, if he was going to feel trapped in a role he had to play out, a life he couldn’t really change, a life that he had no idea how to change into something he wouldn’t mind living without constant distraction, then he was going to do his damnedest to make everyone else just as miserable. 

“You’re a superhero,” he continues, “that’s how they see you, and they see you doing good, saving people and fighting evil and it’s not some show for you, it’s just how you are. You’re a good bean, and people see that, people like working with you. They respect you, and that’s the spin they give it when they talk about you, good or bad.” 

“You’re a superhero,” Peter argues. “It’s not like you don’t do the same! It’s not like you’re not a good person!” 

“Wrong,” Tony says, lacing his fingers together, cracking the joints as he flips his hands down, out. “Wrong on all counts. I’m  _ Tony Stark _ , before I’m Iron Man, first and last, I’ve got a mountain of missteps behind me, and I’m really, really not a good person.” 

“I don’t know if you actually believe that or not,” Peter says, “but it’s really not true.” 

“You seem to know me so well, sometimes,” Tony says, “but you still have this giant blind spot about this. My moral compass is more than a little off plumb; I’m selfish and egotistic and anything I do, I do for my benefit.” 

“That is- that is not true!” Peter sputters. “Wow, that is not true at  _ all _ . Look, you - you’re just a person, ok? You don’t have to be perfect to be good, you know. That’s - that’s not how it works.” 

“Yeah, well, tell that to everyone else, then,” Tony says, and he’s tired of this conversation, this isn’t anywhere he meant it to go. 

“Maybe I will,” Peter says, stubborn. 

“Good luck with that, then,” Tony tells him. 

It’s not going to go anywhere. 

* 

“Mr. Stark,” Peter says, one day. 

“Mmm,” Tony replies, still focused on his screen. If he could just get this to- 

“Tony,” Peter says, a little exasperated, maybe, but Tony's so close... 

“Friday, flip the switch please,” Peter says, and Tony's screen goes blank. All the screens go blank, ah, fuck. 

Yeah, he'd given Peter top level access, same as Pepper and Rhodey and himself, but not so he could lock Tony out. “What the hell, Peter?” he says. 

“Mr. Stark,” Peter says again, and oh, shit, that's a serious look. “I need to ask you something.” 

Oh this is bad. “Sure, Aragog,” Tony says, turning to face Peter, who's scooted a little closer, looking nervous. “What's up?” 

Peter takes a huge, deep breath, nervous, and now Tony's nervous; what is Peter so scared of asking? 

“Are you dying?” Peter asks, and- what? 

What? 

“What,” Tony says, his mind drawing an absolute blank. “No?” And ok that's not really a question, of course he's not dying, but  _ what?  _

Peter looks at him, suspiciously 

“Ok, look, I realize I don't have a great track record on being truthful about if I'm dying or not, but no, I’m absolutely not dying. Or at least, no more than the general human condition suggests, but-” he breaks off, because Peter has dropped his head into his hands, hunched over, with his elbows on his knees. 

“Oh, thank god,” Peter says, shakily, “Thank god.” 

“Wait,” Tony says, “wait, you were really, really serious?” He wheels closer, until his knees are almost touching Peter's. “You really thought I was dying? Why?” 

“Of course I thought you were dying!” Peter explodes, gripping at his face now, like Tony's said something so stupid he can't stand it. “What was I supposed to think? You've spent the last two years stepping back from active duty and setting things up to run without you and do you really, really think I wouldn't notice how you've been slowly slipping me access and control over the engineering of the armor?” 

Which, no, Tony had kind of been thinking Peter hadn’t noticed, that was dumb of him. 

“The armor,” Peter continues, “that you've sworn up and down you won't give anyone access to, that you've fought and fought to keep out of any hands but your own? I mean, I basically did all the upgrades for the last two versions! Why else would you be passing this stuff on?” He flings his head up to glare at Tony, then flings his hands up. “What possible conclusion was I supposed to draw from that? Rhodey told me how he got the suit, Pepper told me how you behaved when you thought you were dying; of course I've spent the last two months convinced you were putting your affairs in order and wouldn't tell me you were dying until you'd already decided there was no way to fix it!” 

“Oh my god, Peter,” Tony says, and reaches forward, grabs Peter's shoulder. “That's not at all what was going on, I never meant for you to think that.” Peter huffs out a breath of frustration and Tony tries to smile at him, halfheartedly. “I'm so sorry, Pete. I had no idea.” 

Peter sighs, and brings his hand up to wrap around Tony's wrist. “Yeah,” he says, “I'm getting that sense.” 

“It's not – ok well I guess on some level, it's related,” Tony rambles, “because yeah, I will eventually die one day. Maybe in bed of old age, although let’s be real, that's pretty low on the list of likelihoods. And I used to think – used to believe – that it would be better, safer, if the armor died with me. There wasn't anyone I trusted to use it well and keep it out of the hands of people who would use it for horrible things.” His hand tightens slightly on Peter's shoulder. “But I can't stop that, you know? I never could, as hard as I tried. Whatever I make, someone, somewhere, will do their damnedest to misuse. If I'm gone, there needs to be someone who can deal with putting out those fires, can keep the armor safe, keep it on the edge of technology.” 

He stops, for a moment, looks at Peter. Waits for him to look up, meet Tony's eyes. “You don't need the armor,” Tony tells him, and Peter twitches a little. “Not like that, it's just, the armor serves a purpose, and your style of fighting, being a meta, being Spiderman, even your … sense of identity – I can make you a better suit, but the armor will never be your style. But maybe, someday, there will be someone else who needs it, like I did, do. I want it to be there, ready for them, and I can't think of anyone better than you to protect it.” 

“Mr. Stark,” Peter starts, “I can't-” 

“Yeah, you can. You already are, you said it yourself. I hoped you weren't noticing how I was transferring you the tech” – and Peter rolls his eyes – “yeah, yeah, I know, what I was I thinking. I just thought it'd freak you out if I gave you all of it at once, which, seriously, looks like I was right,” Tony finishes, pointing at Peter. 

“You have a history, Mr. Stark,” Peter mutters, which, ok, that's a point, but seriously. Also, since when did Peter talk to Rhodey and Pepper about stuff like that? 

“You're going to be amazing, kid,” Tony says, and Peter looks at him, not – not startled, or disbelieving, but like he's focusing on Tony with everything in him. “You're already amazing, I mean, but … you're going to be something else, Peter. I hope I get to see some of it.” 

Peter looks at him, for a long time. Leans forward, a little, hand still around Tony's wrist, and if Tony didn't know Peter was long over that crush of his, he'd think Peter is about to kiss him. 

He is. 

Peter's lips are warm and firm against Tony's, kissing him carefully, slowly. For a moment, Tony forgets about everything, lets his hand slide from Peter's shoulder up, behind Peter's neck, barely in his hair. 

Jerks back, breathing in sharply. “Peter,” he says, “Peter, this isn't-” 

“Don't,” Peter says, sharply, cutting him off. “Tony, don't you dare say anything about how I’m too young, or don’t know what I want, or even some bullshit about how you're no good at this.” 

“Uh, excuse you, those are all true,” Tony says, stubborn, worn out. He will be better than this. 

“None of them are true,” Peter says, exasperated. “I'm not too young, ok? I know seventeen was, but I'm not that age anymore, I've grown up even if you refuse to see me as anything except a kid, still. I know what I want, Tony, I've tried other things, I've been with other people, and it's never – fuck, Tony, no one's like you. No one ever makes me feel anything like you do, and I don't just mean, um, physically. You understand me, you know me, know everything that it's not safe to let most people know, and you aren't ever afraid of me, aren't intimidated.” 

“You're less than half my age,” Tony argues. “That's not a good thing, that's just, fuel for the fire, that's way past creepy territory.” 

He doesn't even want to touch the rest of that, because that's just … how much has he accidentally warped the way Peter looks at people, at relationships, by letting him stay around Tony, by not shutting down his crush and his hero worship way, way sooner? 

Peter tilts his head, like he’s found something out of place. “That's not the real reason,” he says. “Why are you fixating on that out of everything? I'm twenty-four, that's not … what are you really so bothered by here?” 

Tony really, really doesn't want to answer that. He has to though, doesn't he, if he wants to convince Peter how terrible of an idea this is. 

“They would fucking crucify you,” he says, “When they found out. Everyone, not just the media, but everyone you know, everyone you care about. You want to think that the people who know you would understand that it's not infatuation, not manipulation, but they'd look at you, Peter, and they'd look at me, they'd see my history and our history and every fucking red flag would go up in their minds. You think it was bad when they found out you were Spiderman? That'll be nothing compared to this.” 

“Oh,” Peter says, “oh, I see. Tony, you can't protect me from everything,” and that, that's not what Tony was saying, that's- “I really, really do not care,” Peter continues, “about what people might say; seriously, Tony? You say it'd be nothing like being outed as Spiderman, but you have no idea what that was really like. You weren't there for that. I can handle whatever new awful things people find to say about me. What about you?” 

“What,” Tony says, “what about me?” 

“You think they'll slander, attack, me,” Peter says, “What about you? You think they're going to be worse to some innocent kid you've snared than they would be to you? Is that what you're scared of?” 

Tony shrugs that off. “They've been saying shit about me since I was younger than you,” he says, “it's just background noise by now.” 

“Then  _ what _ ,” Peter says, frustrated. “What? Fuck, Tony.” He rubs his hand across his face. “Look,” he says, quietly. “If – if you really don't want me, at all, if you're not interested and just don't want to hurt me more, just tell me, Tony, and I’ll – I’ll stop, ok, I won't bring it up again, ever.” 

It would be so easy, so right, to agree with that, but Tony can't, not even in Peter's best interests. “Of course I want you,” he blurts out, “Peter, who wouldn't, you're a dream, that's not the problem,” and oh, oh shit, he should not have said that, because Peter's looking at him now, Peter's smiling, so wide and so relieved and so, so fucking happy, like that's the best news he's ever heard, and Tony loves that expression on Peter's face. How is he supposed to resist that? 

He has to. He has to. 

“I’m really bad at relationships,” Tony says, trying to stop this momentum. “I’m so bad. I don't – I hide what I'm feeling and I freak out and shut people out and I never remember any important dates, I don't even remember what I was told ten minutes ago half the time. I get things wrong all the time, ask Happy, ask Rhodey, ask Pepper, god, she can give you a mile long list. Ask anybody,” Tony continues, feeling frantic. “You think you're not going to be miserable when I fuck up and hurt you, put you in danger and ignore what's important to you? Think again.” 

Peter just … looks at him. “Tony,” he says, patiently, “I'm a superhero too; you're not going to put me in any more danger than I'd put you in. So you don't remember my birthday; you remember how I like my suit set up. I'm not a pushover, and I know you have commitments and a life and screw up sometimes. This isn't news to me.” 

“Commitment,” Tony says, grabs onto it like it's the only thing keeping him afloat. “I don’t, you know that, you've seen that.” 

“Really,” Peter asks. “Really? Tony, we've been having science dates almost every week for the last six years.” 

“That- that's not – that's not what those were!” Tony sputters, “That's not – that's not at all the same! They weren't dates!” 

“Ok, Tony,” Peter says and he is definitely humoring Tony. “I'm going to kiss you again,” he says.”Alright?” 

Tony doesn't say anything, he can't, this isn't- 

Peter kisses him, and Tony stops thinking about rights and wrongs and just lets himself want this a little. Kissing Peter feels perfect, like something he should have been doing forever. Like something he has been doing forever, normal and right and safe. 

Peter sighs gently against Tony's mouth, not pulling apart after the kiss. “Hey, Mr. Stark,” he says, quietly, the beginning of a ritual Tony knows by heart. 

“Hey, kid,” he whispers back, and just like that, things slot into place. 

(Later, it's  _ oh my god kid look at you, no look at you, _ and  _ harder, Mr. Stark, I'm not going to break, _ and  _ there, right there, that's it, _ and  _ that's perfect, you're perfect, don't stop, _ and  _ Peter, Peter,  _ and _ Tony, Tony, Tony.  _

When Tony wakes up in the middle of the night, Peter's curled up against him, back nestled against Tony's chest, head on Tony's arm. Tony feels a flutter of panic, of doubt. What was he thinking? 

Peter stirs, slightly, and sighs, wiggles back a little. Tony brings his other arm up, over Peter's waist and slides his fingers up Peter's arm, touches his palm. Peter's hand flexes, reaches for Tony's, sliding their fingers together and gripping him tight. 

Tony gives in.) 

* 

When the press finally finds out – which takes longer than Tony thought, he supposes they've gotten used to seeing Peter and Tony at the same events, out together fairly often. Or maybe Tony's just old news by now, though Peter shouldn’t be. 

When they finally find out, there's a frenzy, a deep satisfaction in finding something more to pin on Tony Stark.  _ Cradle robber, _ they scream, _ disgusting, taking advantage of a vulnerable young man, _ or  _ maybe he's a gold digger, maybe Spiderman has daddy issues. _ Some of them, the only ones Tony bothers to go after, whisper  _ and how long has this gone on.  _

When asked, Tony puts on his sharpest, most vicious smirk, the one older reporters know is bad news. It hasn't dulled a bit, he's pleased to note. “I'm just outrageously lucky that Peter will have me,” he tells them, and what he means is  _ fuck you _ . 

Peter links his arm with Tony's and says, “I think I'm the extraordinarily lucky one here.” Leans in and kisses Tony's cheek, and when Tony turns his head, Peter smiles, that wide, eternally awkward smile he's never really grown out of. Tony feels his smirk soften into a smile in return. 

And that's the picture that ends up on the front of every magazine and website and screen, circulated around and around for years to come. Tony and Peter, a sliver of light between their noses as they turn, smiling, towards each other, with the stupid, fond look of those (so the romantics say) in love.

Tony has a copy framed, keeps it on his main workbench. Peter thinks it's a little tacky. 

Tony looks at it, at Peter's smile, at both their smiles, and doesn't care. 

(When Peter wakes up, disoriented and panicked, from the nightmares he’ll tell Tony about, the nightmares of falling, being dragged down by a crumbling plane, on fire; of trains, watching them come at him and just waiting for the pain, the end; of being crushed, trapped, the weight of so much stone and rubble and cement on him, pinning him, such a small, dark space, Tony holds him, tells him he’s safe, he’s here, he’s going to be fine, that Tony’s got him. 

When Tony wakes up from nightmares of Peter, turning to ash in his arms, Peter lets Tony cling to him; tells Tony, over and over and over, “I'm here, I'm here, I'm here. You saved me, I'm here,” until Tony can breathe again, Peter a solid, comforting weight in his arms. 

And when Peter wakes screaming, from nightmares he refuses to tell Tony about, with tears on his face, Tony returns the favor.) 

**Author's Note:**

> Because it's apparently not was well known as I thought: [Boris the Spider](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bvFuUaCe8eY)
> 
> [The shirt that Peter gives Tony as a gag.](https://www.aliexpress.com/item/32759451877.html)
> 
> By some weird twist of fate, I discovered [this picture](https://i.imgur.com/Vt8e7OC.jpg) AFTER writing the ending. It was meant to be. 
> 
> Many, many thanks to the_me09 and clementinestarling for beta reading.


End file.
